#the last kingdom fan fiction

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

All Things End

Pairing: Osferth (The Last Kingdom) x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut. Word count: ~2.7k

Summary: Based on this request. Life has been blissful for Osferth since finding love with a Christian woman from Alton. However, he cannot shake the thought that she deserves better; if he loves her, he should want her to be happy, even if that happiness is not found with him... Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @blvckmvgicwoman. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Her breaths come in ragged pants that fan hotly against the sweat soaked skin of Osferth’s neck. She is pliant beneath him, thighs wrapped tightly around his waist, mirroring the spasming grip of her warm, wet walls, pulling him towards his end as she reaches her own. The pressure that has steadily been building at the base of his spine explodes in white hot intensity, and he screws his eyes shut as he pushes back into her with a final, deep thrust, spilling himself inside of her.

Inside of her.

He freezes as the sensation fades away, eyes snapping back open in stark realisation. He pulls back, breathing heavily, panic not allowing his heart rate to slow.

“I–I did not mean to…I’m sorry. That was careless of me, please forgive me, I–”

She places a palm against his cheek, caressing his face gently, halting his rambled apologies. Her expression is calm, though her eyes are glossy, lips parted as the afterglow of their tryst suffuses through her flesh.

“It is fine, my love, we will take care of it.”

He knows all too well what she means when she says that. She will take care of it. It would not be the first time that she has had to.

It has been a year since they shared their first night together, and they have enjoyed many more since then, under the cover of stars, or on the straw stuffed mattresses of the various ale reeking inns that they find themselves in when they have enough coin to seek proper shelter on their travels. Osferth is usually always careful, pulling out and coating her thighs, lower back or belly with his spend. However, there have been two occasions when he has gotten lost in her warmth, the intoxicating scent of her, and forgotten himself, finishing inside of her as he ascends to the height of bliss, before the gravity of his carelessness plummets him back to earth with horrifying cognizance. Tonight is the third time that this has happened.

His expression is sullen as he sits by the campfire the following morning, watching her brew the pungent roots and herbs in a steaming pot of water. The acrid stench makes his nostrils twitch in disgust, but he refuses to move or look away. She is the one that has to drink the noxious liquid, suffering the smell of it pales in comparison, and does little to assuage the guilt that weighs heavily upon his chest.

She grimaces as she gulps it down, brow furrowed as she struggles not to retch at the taste, and he swears silently to himself that this is a torment that he will never allow her to suffer again. She deserves better, he must be better for her.

The frightened young woman he had met in Alton has come a long way since he had rescued her. She is no longer shy and fearful and, though still steadfast in her faith, she shares herself with him freely and without shame. She drinks ale, laughs heartily at Finan’s dirty jokes and no longer displays any apprehension at interacting with Uhtred and the others. His heart swells with warmth and affection for the woman he has fallen in love with, she is truly the light of his life. Though in moments such as these he is left to ponder on how exactly he has changed hers, and if it is for the better.

He has basked in her warmth on chilly evenings, enjoyed the sinful pleasures of her flesh, found comfort and joy in the unconditional love that she showers him with, but what can he possibly offer her in return?

Osferth is her protector, but would she need that protection at all if she were not travelling with Uhtred and his men? He is the blade against the harm that he directly places her in the way of every time they prepare for battle. They have no home, no money, nothing but what they carry upon their horses. He loves her more than he ever thought himself capable of loving another person, but love alone will not provide for her.

The thoughts consume him as they ride south, towards the next village, and he clings tightly to her as she leans back against him in the saddle, as though he can feel the very essence of her slipping through his fingers. A man less selfish would simply let her go, but he cannot fathom a life without her. Deep down, despite trying his best, he knows he will never get it right.

Beocca and Æthelwold are awaiting them when they arrive, and she leaves him with a cheerful smile and a soft kiss on the lips, explaining that she wishes to explore, a polite means to excuse herself from the discussion that she knows does not concern her. He is ever grateful for her intuitive nature, but once more left disheartened that she is placed in that position to begin with.

He is barely able to focus as Beocca relays Alfred’s demands to Uhtred. There is a dawning sense of finality settling in the pit of his stomach, causing cold tendrils of dread to spread throughout his body, and it does not come from the news of the King’s order of one hundred pieces of wergild and an oath sworn to his son, Edward. There is a price he knows he will have to pay sooner rather than later, and it will come at a greater cost to him than any fealty sworn to a future ruler.

Osferth watches as she laughs breathlessly, the sound carrying softly on the breeze. The children scurry around her skirts, rosy faced and grinning, eager to play. She had obliged and agreed to join in on their game of chase when they had invited her, excited at having new people arrive in the village. Her playing with them feels effortless, natural even, and he thinks about how easily she would adapt to motherhood, to have a babe of her own to hold in her arms. It causes a lump in his throat, his gaze growing misty as his mouth tugs downward, knowing that’s something he will never be able to give her.

He is a bastard. He will not pass that curse on by marriage or parentage, that will die with him.

But what of her wants and needs? He is depriving her of the opportunity to be a wife, a mother. He can no longer subject her to a life of vagrancy and uncertainty, simply because of his heedless desire to have her at his side. She did not ask for this, it has been thrust upon her without her say so. Her life cannot truly begin until the one she leads with him comes to an end. With a heavy heart, he decides that when they reach the next town he will travel on without her.

The village they currently occupy seems too small, too dirty, not vibrant enough for her to call home, he reasons, she deserves to live somewhere bigger and as filled with exuberant life as she is. He knows he is lying to himself, he is simply unprepared to let her go, he is not ready. He is not sure he ever will be, but he will have to be for both of their sakes.

Over the coming days, he keeps her close, committing to memory the softness of her hair between his fingers and the way the sunlight dapples upon it like fresh spun silk. He inhales the fragrant scent of her skin every time he holds her close, as though trying to permanently imprint the faint floral smell upon his mind.

The way her eyes light up whenever she smiles is the sight he will miss most of all. He wishes for that to be the only expression he ever sees upon her beautiful face. He cannot bear the thought of parting ways and seeing the heartbreak in her eyes, or the tears that might fill them. It is craven, but he knows the only way he will ever be able to leave her is if he slips away without telling her.

His heart sits like a stone within his chest when they eventually arrive at the next town. He knows that when he departs it will no longer be in tact, torn asunder as he leaves half of it behind. He can see his future darkening as he looks into her eyes, knowing it may be the final time he ever gets the opportunity to do so.

Osferth makes love to her that night, his pace unhurried, every thrust drawn out slowly, memorising the subtle movements of her hips and each soft sigh that passes her lips. His hands stroke through her hair, caressing her face, before dragging over her curves. If this is to be his final time with her then he wants it to last, wants her to feel just how much she means to him, and to be left with the memory of how utterly divine she had felt pressed against him.

“I love you,” he whispers to her, as she cuddles against his chest afterwards.

“And I love you.”

Those simple words cause his throat to tighten, knowing he will never hear her utter them again.

It is for the best, he thinks sadly as he watches her sleep peacefully next to him. She deserves the opportunity to settle down, to get married, to have a family. She deserves everything he will never be able to give her.

He slips out of the bed as dawn breaks, casting a dusky orange glow through the gap in the threadbare curtains. The loss of her warmth is intensified by the knowledge that this is his final time experiencing it, the sensation of parting from her akin to being plunged into icy water. He has to force himself to look away from her in order to gather up his clothes and get dressed, careful not to disturb her.

Hovering by the door, he hesitates a moment, staring at her as she slumbers. If this is the right thing to do, then why does it feel so painful? His love for her is unconditional, however, and he longs for her to find happiness, even if that means he is not a part of it.

He hates the thought of her waking up alone, the inevitable betrayal she will feel when she realises what he has done, and it tempts him to stay, to continue to pretend that he could ever be enough for her. But he knows those feelings will pass for her, and when they do she will meet the man who will marry her and father children with her, a man who does not carry the curse of bastardry.

“There is a woman in the room upstairs,” he tells the innkeeper on his way out, handing him a coin purse containing all of the money that Osferth has to his name. “Please ensure she is well taken care of.”

His hands shake as he saddles up his horse, the void she has left behind seeming as though it will swallow him whole. He is incomplete without her, destined to go through life feeling like half of a person.

Finan raises an eyebrow at Osferth, as he tends to his own mount, eyeing him with suspicion. “She not coming with us?”

Osferth swallows thickly, an attempt to keep the emotion from his voice, as he keeps his eyes focused on the straps he buckles. “No.”

“Yes, I am!” She cries out, hurrying towards them, a bewildered look upon her face. Her hair is still tousled from sleep, suggesting she had dressed in a hurry to catch them up. “Osferth, why did you not wake me?”

His heart sinks, tears prickling his eyes as he turns to look at her, knowing he will now have to have the conversation he had been wanting to avoid all along. Finan clears his throat, looking between the two of them, before moving away towards where Uhtred and Sihtric are readying to leave.

“You are to stay here,” he says in a trembling voice, “I have left coin with the innkeeper to take care of you.”

“For how long?” She asks, brow furrowing in confusion.

He lowers his gaze, guilt pooling in his gut, unsure of how to word his response. There is no kind way to say “forever” in this instance.

“For how long, Osferth?!” She asks again, her voice wavering as it raises an octave.

His eyes are sad and filled with remorse as he looks back up at her, nausea swirling in his stomach as he watches a tear slip down her cheek. His fingers twitch uselessly by his sides with the urge to wipe it away.

“Do you not want me anymore?” 

Her voice is barely above a whisper as she asks this, and it feels as though a dagger has been twisted into Osferth’s heart. How could she possibly ever believe he didn’t want her? She means everything to him.

He shakes his head, the words feeling as though they will choke him as his vision blurs. “I will never stop wanting you,” he confesses, “but that is precisely the problem. You deserve better than the life I can provide for you. I will never be able to give you children, or marry you. I am trying to do what is best for you. I want you to be happy.”

“You make me happy, you bloody fool!” She cries, the slightest hint of anger creeping into her tone. “And it is not for you to decide what is best for me. Why did you not tell me that this was how you were feeling?”

“I could not bear to have a conversation that I knew would break both of our hearts. I know that is cowardice, but I knew you would never agree to leave, and I cannot continue to hold you back from the life you deserve.”

He stares miserably at her, feeling the wetness of his tears upon his face as she swipes angrily at her own. This is not how this was supposed to go. He does not want this to be how they remember each other.

“You are right,” she says defiantly, “I would not have agreed to go. If a husband and children were what I wanted then I would have parted ways with you long ago. I am not the scared little girl you found a year ago. I make my own choices.” 

His lips part involuntarily, eyes widening slightly. “How can this possibly be the life that you would choose for yourself? How could I ever be enough?”

She sighs, reaching for his hand, clasping his fingers tightly in his. The gesture spreads warmth from the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head.

“I love you, Osferth. You are enough for me. The life we have is enough for me. I do not wish to risk my life in childbirth, or spend my days tending to the needs of a husband who views me as something to be possessed. I want a life that is filled with adventure, I want to fall asleep under the stars, and I want to do it all with you at my side.”

A small, yet hopeful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he steps closer, tenderly wiping away the wetness beneath her eyes with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “God brought us together for a reason. All things must end, I know this, but not what we have, just the foolish way in which you perceive it.”

He rests his forehead against hers, relief and embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I have been so stupid, can you ever forgive me? I do not know how to even begin to apologise.”

She leans in, pressing her lips to his, allowing them to linger for a moment before pulling away with a slight grin. “Save your apologies. You will need them for the innkeeper when you ask for your money back.”

He smiles. There is comfort in knowing that everything ends, because within it they have been given the opportunity to begin again.

[viking-chaos]

Of Irland, Chapter 24

Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 23 \\ Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 24: Ships and more Ships

Chapter Warnings: Language, threat, nothing serious really. Words: 3507 AO3 A/N: My heading layout has changed because I am using a different app.

“So, when will the ships arrive?”

“They will arrive when they arrive, Ivar, as I told you the last fifty times you asked.”

“But it hasn’t arrived yet!”

“I said it should arrive today. I didn’t say I knew what time exactly it would arrive. How am I supposed to know that?”

“You are a fucking seer! These are the sorts of things you’re supposed to ‘see’. So why can’t you just ‘see?’”

“Because it doesn’t work like that!”

This was the argument that greeted Sigtryggr and Stiorra as they made their way down the stairs to breakfast. Sigtryggr gave her hand one last squeeze before they parted. It was best for both of them that Ivar didn’t find out. They would keep their relationship a secret as long as possible.

“That is exactly how it is supposed to work!” Ivar said indignantly.

Drifa sighed, putting her head in her hands. “Ivar, I see death, life, grief and love. I do not see the exact time and place an enemy will approach. I do not see whether or not it will rain or snow. I certainly do not see the exact time that a ship will arrive.”

“You're not much of a seer then, are you?”

Drifa gave a defeated groan and turned to the newcomers, sitting themselves at the table.

“How was your night then?” she asked, a wide grin on her face.

Stiorra choked on her morning porridge. 

“My night would have been better if I knew a ship or two would arrive safely today with supplies and goods,” Ivar interjected.

“I wasn’t asking you,” Drifa retorted. 

This back and forth must have been going on for some time, as Drifa sighed and put her head in her hands. “And I have told you. The bloody ship arrives today. I don’t know what time.”

“What she means,” Asvard called out from a table across the room, “is she doesn’t give two shits about the ship. And you’re not even worth one!”

“Asvard!” Drifa admonished, but Stiorra could see her smiling. 

“You can go look out for the ship,” Ivar ordered. 

“You are not my king or my jarl, “Drifa reminded him, standing.

“You serve my family.”

“I serve Bjorn Ironside, Ivar. He is the king back home, or have you forgotten,” Drifa said, standing.

Stiorra froze. Bjorn Ironside. The brother of Ivar the Boneless? Drifa had often mentioned her king back ‘home’, wherever home was to her. But to have Bjorn Ironside as a king?

“But I will go.”

Ivar nodded. “Good.”

“Partly so she doesn’t have to look at your slimy shit-face countenance again,” Hæfnir piped up.

This time she didn’t even bother yelling at him. Just shook her head and left the hall.

“Bjorn Ironside?” Stiorra whispered to Sigtryggr. “Her lands were given to her by Bjorn Ironside?”

“No,” he answered. “They were given to her by his father. And my grandfather’s father.”

Stiorra sighed, flopping back in her seat. “Everyone seems to be related to everyone,” she grumbled.

___________________________________________________

After a rather tense and silent breakfast, Ivar ordered both of his brothers to make their way down to the docks to await the ship. Stiorra went with, partly so she would not be left alone in the Great Hall with Ivar. Rognvaldr vanished somewhere on the way. 

They found Drifa staring pointedly down the river. 

“What are you doing, my friend?” Sigtryggr asked, trying to figure out what she was staring so hard at. 

“I am following orders, Sigtryggr. I am ‘looking’ for the ship.”

Stiorra giggled. Trust Drifa to find some way of annoying Ivar.

A small crowd had started gathering around the dock, all eagerly awaiting the arrival of this ship. It was strange to Stiorra that one ship could gain so much interest, but given where it was coming, it almost seemed reasonable.

“Has this ship come straight from Fjall?” she asked. 

“No, the one before that never arrived did,” Drifa answered. “This ship came from the Mediterranean.”

“The where?”

Drifa chuckled slightly. “The Mediterranean is a sea. The Roman Empire once held sway over the lands that surrounded it. The ships that come from there are often laden with spices and silk, herbs, linen, many things. Anything that comes from there tends to be the best of the best. The lands there are rich in resources.”

As Drifa spoke, the crowd surrounding the docks swelled. People were jostling each other, trying to see if the boat had come. Fear of Drifa probably kept from coming too close.

A laugh from behind turned Stiorra around to see Sigtryggr laughing with his friend, Alvin, Arnas? She couldn’t remember.

Whatever his name was, he did not seem particularly pleased at his friend's hysterics.

“What did you do this time, you half-wit?” Drifa teased.

The red haired man rolled his eyes. “She was complaining that her back hurt, so I reminded her of the time I jumped off the walls in a snowstorm and landed back-first in a pile of snow,” he mumbled, now looking more ashamed of himself. “So she whalloped  me with one of her skirts.” 

Drifa, like Sigtryggr, burst out laughing. 

“Why would you jump off the walls in a snowstorm?” Stiorra asked, giggling herself because it sounded so stupid.

“Because I dared him too,” Sigtryggr answered. Stiorra’s jaw dropped. There was no way, Sigtryggr, of all people, would dare his best friend to do something so ridiculously idiotic. He was too responsible, level-headed, and intelligent.…

“I was young and foolish once, too, Stiorra,” he said, seeing her expression. He stepped closer and placed a finger under her chin, applying the barest of pressures until her mouth was shut.

They stared in each other's eyes for what seemed like an eternity. A small pool of wetness grew between her thighs.

The moment lasted until Sigtryggr’s friend swung his arm around the much taller Dane and whispered conspiratorially in his ear, “Are you humping her?”

“Anlaf!” Sigtryggr snapped back at him. Anlaf (that was his name then) held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t be telling Ivar. He scares me more than he scares you.”

Sigtryggr scoffed. “Ivar doesn’t scare me.”

He was lying. Stiorra could see it in his eyes. Ivar scared them all. 

Drifa walked up to them, having apparently abandoned her ‘efforts’ to search for the ship.

“Anlaf, you should try being pregnant sometime. When you wake up, you need to pee, to get up, you have to roll over. You have to be careful not to roll on your overly large belly that swells in front of you, while that same belly prevents you from rolling yourself over.”

Anlaf sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“When you finally do get up and pee, your back hurts. You sit down and you need to pee again. Your arse hurts, your breasts have swelled and they hurt,” she continued. “And on top of that, you have a husband who complains that you're always hurting, because you are, you never satisfy his needs because you’re too tired. You have your own needs, which your husband is too afraid of hurting the baby to satisfy, and he still expects you to cook his meals, and clean the house he pays for, and clean his clothes, make the bed, mend his shirts among other things. All of which you are too bloody pregnant to do.”

Everyone just stared at her for a moment. 

“Have you ever had a baby, Drifa?” Anlaf asked, shocked, “because I can’t for the life of me figure out how you know all of that without having any children.”

“Perhaps I have had children and you just don't know about it,” she joked. No-one laughed with her. Stiorra almost believed it for a moment. “Because as the midwife who checks on your wife every week, that is what she tells me.”

Anlaf nodded, looking, if it was possible, even more ashamed of himself.

“It is also what every woman tells me when I visit. They tell me their husbands do nothing to help. That they’re useless. Some husbands do not care to help.”

“Tell me what I can do, Jarl Drifa?” Anlaf asked. “What can I do to help her?”

“You can help look after your daughter, you can help her with whatever tasks need doing around the house. Let her rest, put her feet up.”

“You could rub her feet,” Sigtryggr suggested out of nowhere. Stiorra looked at him blankly. How does he know that?

Seeing her confused expression, he smiled. “I also help in the hospital sometimes.”

Suddenly someone yelled, “SHIP! THERE’S A SHIP!”

The crowds jostled impatiently. Drifa signalled to some of her men to keep the crowds back. Stiorra was searching frantically for this ship.

Drifa’s ships were somewhat famous. As a traveller, she had to take a large enough ship to carry as much supplies as possible, as well as the men and women she’d bring with. She never wanted to bring a whole fleet, just to carry supplies. And so once, not long before she set on an extremely long voyage, She designed an enormous ship, large enough to carry around two-hundred men. The only problem was that many were built before she realised she didn't need dozens of ships that could carry an army twice the size of the army she already commanded. So she loaned them out to traders in return of a particular tax and a particular set of rules. This route went all the way from her own lands in Fjall, through Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and over the North Sea to Lunden and Wessex, places in Frankia, Espana, all the way through the Mediterranean. And of course, Dyflin. The route even connected to the Silk Road that led all the way to China. All places Stiorra had never been to, or barely even heard of. This venture earned her a lot of money, as well as the taxes she received from Fjall itself. There was a theory that she was the richest person in the entire world, although that would never be confirmed.

As the ship finally entered view in the harbour, Stiorra was finally able to see the true size of these things. She’d never seen one of these ships up close. Even the one they’d used to get to Dyflin had been a regular longship. And it was enormous. The hull itself was taller than even Sigtryggr. This boat was longer and wider than any ship that had ever been built. Stiorra even wondered how it was afloat. It finally came to rest at the docks, docks that had been specially built to accommodate the sheer size of it. The bright red sail appeared to be made of at least four regular sails stitched together. 

“Four times the size of your regular knarr. Can hold four times the amount of cargo, yet with a very similar amount of crew,” Drifa said proudly and the gangplank was lowered.

A dark haired man wearing a bright red cloak like the sails stepped down the plank. He had a bushy beard that obscured half his face. His bright blue eyes just peeped out from the tangle of his hair.

“Ornulf!” Drifa called, waving to him. The trader, Ornulf, walked slowly down the plank, limping as though he had been wounded. “What happened to you?”

Ornulf stumbled off the end of the plank as though his legs were not used to standing on unmoving ground. Sigtryggr, the hero he was, caught him before he hit the ground. “Pirates happened.” 

Sigtryggr then guided him over to a bench, where the trader sat, rubbing his leg.

“So, you know what happened to the previous ship?” he asked.

“I do, Lord.”

Men started to unload the large ship, but all eyes were on Ornulf.

“We had just arrived in Cookham for Yol, as you instructed, Jarl,” he began. “Lord Uhtred told us about the ship. And he said that two of the pirates had gone into town, gotten themselves drunk, and they foolishly boasted about their conquest. Lord Uhtred informed me that they apprehended the men in question. I offered to bring them here to you for judgement, given it was your ship they sank.”

Ornulf signalled to two of his men.

“Did these men say who they were?” Drifa asked.

“One was called Hermand, the other Anlaf.”

A struggle on the deck caught the attention of those watching. Two of Ornulfs burlier men were dragging two younger smaller men down the ramp.

The first was tall and muscular. His dark hair was long and braided. His face was covered in intricate tattoos that extended down his neck into his armour. Most curious though, was the pendant in the shape of a bear around his neck. Most warriors wore a hammer to represent Thor.

Stiorra glanced at Sigtryggr and noticed him grip his sword tight. She laid a gentle hand on his arm, hoping to calm him.

“That man there is a berserker, like Hæfnir,” he whispered. 

“But Hæfnir doesn’t wear that pendant,” she whispered back.

“People call him a berserker because he fights like one, in a crazed trance, but he is not a true berserker in the way most think of it. He is called that for a joke.”

The second man was not quite as tall or burly. His face was long and thin, his hair was long, as was the fashion, but unbraided and wild. As he came closer, Sigtryggr relaxed his stance and sighed audibly. He muttered something in Irish that sounded like a swear word.

Once both were standing in front of him, he approached the berserker. “Hermund,” he said by way of greeting. “I am sorry about your wife.”

Hermund snapped to look at him in shock. “Did you not hear?” Drifa said. “She died giving birth to your son, Ingilmundr. The boy is here, he has been cared for by his uncle Anlaf.”

Stiorra looked at him. Anlaf was tense as well, holding onto the axe strapped to his belt.

“Brother,” he called over. 

Sigtryggr moved onto the other. “Nephew,” he said.

Stiorra froze. Nephew. One of the raiders was his nephew? But Ivar doesn’t have any children.

“Take them both to the Great Hall. And someone tell Ivar,” Sigtryggr ordered.

Stiorra raced after him as he started to walk off. The crowds surged forwards now the fun was over, wanting various items from the immense ship.

“Sigtryggr!” she yelled after him. He stopped and grabbed her hand to pull her through the crowd safely. 

Once they were both out of the crowds, she was able to ask him the question on her mind.

“You never said you had a nephew,” she said.

“His father is Ivar’s older brother, Guthfrith,” he explained. She remembered Drifa saying something about him, that he left Dyflin many years ago.

“Around the time I was born, Guthfrith had a falling out with Ivar. I was only a babe, so I don’t know much about it. I only know it was bad enough for Guthfrith to leave with his wife. Five years later, his wife came back, heavily pregnant and covered in bruises. Drifa was there at the time, creating a trade deal with my father. Guthfrith’s wife gave birth a week after she came back and died, but she was alive long enough to name her son Anlaf, and to ask my father to raise him, which he did.

“Five years ago, Anlaf left with his best friend, Hermand, who is my friend, Anlaf’s brother. They both left to find his father, and we haven’t heard anything since. Hermand was married, and his wife was with child. She gave birth six months after they left, dying ten days later, after begging her brother-in-law’s to raise her son.”

There was silence between them at the end of his story. 

“Your friend has another brother?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, his name is Skoll Grimmarsson,” he answered, “and he is Ivar’s best friend.”

A loud clanking turned both of them around. Drifa was walking towards them, Asvard beside her carrying a large box.

“And Skoll Grimmarsson is one ugly pain in the arse,” Drifa added. “We don’t like him.”

Who could be surprised? A friend of Ivar’s was likely to be just as bad as him.

“It is a complicated family,” she sighed. “First you have two Anlafs. We call the nephew Anlaf, Other Anlaf.”

Stiorra giggled. 

“Then there’s the fact that yous two are cousins.”

Stiorra gaped at her. Sigtryggr looked as though she was mad (which she was).

“It’s true!” she insisted. “Gisela was the daughter of Harthacanute, who was the son of Sigurd Snake-Eye, who’s brother was Ivar the Boneless. You’re second cousins once removed, I think.”

Still they stared.

“It’s not incest!” she protested. “It doesn’t count!”

“Not like them,” Asvard said. 

“Oh, yes, them.”

“Who’s them?” Sigtryggr asked, exceedingly confused.

“Them who shall not be named are famous for the incest. But, they shall not be names,” Drifa said, tapping the side of her nose with a finger. “Besides the point,” she gestured to Asvard, “a present from Lord Uhtred of Cookham to his daughter.”

Asvard presented the box to Stiorra. Drifa hit him on the head. “Take it up to her room, you oaf, it’s heavy.” Asvard grumbled as he walked off in the general direction of the Great Hall. "You're welcome," she added. 

"Umm, thank you?" Stiorra said quizzically. She wasn't really sure that being told she had humped her cousin had been at all necessary. 

Sigtryggr tapped her shoulder and whispered, “You should go back to the room and open your presents. Drifa and I have to have a little talk,” he finished with glare in the skald’s direction.

_______________________________________

Back in the Great Hall (Ivar had mercifully left to deal with the arrival of the ship), Asvard was just coming down the stairs that led to the bedrooms. He held out an arm to stop Stiorra from going any further.

“Lady, um” he started, “I’m not sure how to say this, but the roof to your room collapsed.” Shit. That was not good. She distantly heard Asvard say something about leaving the box in Sigtryggr’s room, which was probably for the best. Ifhe had it his way, he would never leave. She managed to let out a thank you to the man before continuing on her way. 

She could see her door at the end of the corridor open. She glanced briefly. The damage was extensive. She would not be sleeping there for a good while.

Now, then, what did my father send me for Yol. She would worry more about her room after she’d seen what she got.

The box was sitting at the end of Sigtryggr’s bed. Stiorra hesitated before opening it, remembering how her father (or more often, whoever was not drunk) had to stop Finan from giving her something inappropriate for Yol. He would often drag poor Osferth (who would be too drunk to even realise what was going on) with him.

Poor baby monk. He’d been so innocent once (or so she had been told).

But then, her father would never have let this box out of Cookham without checking it thoroughly first. She opened it, and began to pull out the contents one by one. There was a trinket from Osferth, a string of beads. Finan had sent her a small flagon of ale. Sihtric had sent a drawing that appeared to have been done by one of his children. 

And then there was Uhtred. He’d gifted her a knife. A sensible gift. A note was attached. “I hope you never need to use this.”

Tears started leaking out of her eyes. She hadn’t seen any of them for months now. 

The door opened softly behind her. It was Sigtryggr. She could tell by the careful footsteps.

There was a light metallic clatter as he removed his sword and belt. Then his arms came around her.

“Has something happened, my love?”

Her heart gave a jolt as he said those two words. It had only been a few days. She wondered if she’d ever get used to hearing them from his mouth.

“Everything is fine.”

“You’re crying.” Damn him for being so observant. “What’s wrong?”

He turned her around to face him, gently wiping away her tears.

“I miss home, my father, my ‘uncles’.”

“Even the ones that get each other in trouble,” he smiled, trying to cheer her up.

“That would be Finan dragging poor Osferth into his schemes,” she chuckled through her tears. 

“Osferth, the baby monk?” he confirmed. Stiorra nodded. 

“I hope I get to take you to meet all of them, one day,” she mused.

“Hmm,” he’d said. “I may be rather afraid.”

“Why? From what I’ve seen, you’re afraid of nothing.”

“Just think about what would happen when the Dane-Slayer finds out that a Dane is humping his daughter.”

She hadn’t thought of that.

[timetravelingpenguin1066]

Of Irland, Chapter 1

Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 1: Let Me Go

Chapter warnings: Drinking, Language, Mentions of SA Words: 3977 A/N: This was originally posted on AO3, now being added onto Tumblr. AO3

“Drifa please,” she begged. “Please let me come with you.”

“I cannot,” Drifa sighed. 

They’d been going around in circles for what must have been an hour. Simply put, Stiorra was bored with her life in Coccham. She yearned for adventure and excitement. Things that Coccham did not offer. She’d been surrounded by the same men for years on end, forced to have a Christian education. But she believed in the gods. Stiorra had no intention of remaining in Coccham where, one day, possibly soon, she’d be sold into marriage to a man she despised. It had happened to Aethelflaed. She did not want it to happen to her.

Drifa was leaving for Irland to help the Danes who were in trouble there. She’d once served Young Ragnar there and helped him make a name for himself. Drifa had been at Ethandun and at Dunholm, which was where she met and befriended Uhtred. Then Ragnar was killed, and she’d spent a few years in her home far across the sea in Norway. She held land and was a Jarl there. When she came back, she’d brought some men with her. And now they’d stopped in Coccham on their way out to Irland, to adventure, which was exactly what Stiorra wanted.

“I will not risk your father’s wrath,” Drifa said. She was not afraid of Uhtred, but that did not mean she wanted to lose his friendship. “Irland will be very dangerous. A war zone. It would not be sensible to take you there.”

“I can defend myself,” Stiorra insisted, drawing her knife. “Anywhere is better than here. Please!”

“Stiorra, you are the Dane Slayer’s daughter. I am going into a nest of Danes. If they find out who you are, half would want to hump you, and the other half would want to kill you as vengeance.”

“I can defend myself,” she repeated. 

Drifa sighed, running out of excuses. They had ranged from not enough room on the boat (“I’m small, I won’t take up much room.”) to not having enough horses (“I can ask my father to give me a horse”). 

“Please, Drifa. I want to live amongst my mother’s people, to find the part of myself that died when she was taken from me.”

 Drifa did not have a good counter to that. Gisela had been her friend. 

“Please, Drifa,” Stiorra pleaded. “ Let me go .”

Drifa groaned, turning towards the window, and leaning on the frame. She sighed, conceding. Stiorra would make a good politician. “Fine,” she growled, grudgingly, not happy to be admitting defeat. “You may come.”

Stiorra jumped up in victory. 

“But,” Drifa warned. “But.” 

Stiorra stopped jumping. 

“You will follow my every order. You are one of my people now.” 

Stiorra nodded. 

At that moment, Finan’s voice called up the stairs. “Unless you want us to eat all the food, you two better come down here!”

“Not on your life, Finan,” Drifa joked to the Irishman. “Not on your life.”

“Then hurry up. I’m starving.”

Drifa looked back at Stiorra, who’d been giggling, her face turning serious. “I will tell you all you need to know on the journey. And Stiorra,” she told her. “You had better remember it all.”

“How’s the food, Drifa?” Uhtred asked.

“Delicious as always, Uhtred,” Drifa said. “My compliments to whoever made this.” She was just being polite, as always, Stiorra could tell. The stew was disgusting.

“It was Finan who made it,” she informed. 

“Well, in that case,” Drifa began. She swallowed another spoonful, and grimaced. “You need to find yourself a woman,” she spluttered. 

Everyone began to laugh. 

“I have no idea how you’re even alive if this is what you eat.”

"So, Drifa," Uhtred said, when the laughter had simmered down, "tell us a story from Irland. I'm sure you have one you have not yet told." 

"Oh, always, Uhtred, always," she chuckled.

"Well, then," goaded Finan, "tell us a story from home."

Drifa put her spoon down and thought for a moment. “Which one do you want me to tell?” she questioned.

“Innis dhaibh am fear mu dheidhinn a 'phut,” proposed Asvard, Drifa’s best friend and advisor.

“Chan eil mi cinnteach gur e deagh bheachd a tha sin,” she said, raising her eyebrows in a jokey manner.

“Would it kill either one of you to speak a language we can understand?” Finan said exasperated. 

“Just tell the story!” encouraged Sihtric. 

Drifa nodded. She downed her cup of ale and set it down.

“One night,” she began, “I was walking the streets of Deflyn. The moon was out, the stars were shining. It was peaceful. I was walking to the tavern, in need of ale. And, I hoped, to watch the world go by. I’m almost there, just around the corner, when I hear this noise.” 

At this moment, Asvard let out a large snort. She glared at him murderously and he quickly changed his laugh into a cough. Stiorra began smiling. Drifa’s stories, at least the funny ones, always led somewhere inappropriate. She silently hoped her father would forget she was there and not tell Drifa to stop.

After she was finished glaring, Drifa continued: “Now this noise, it sounded like a dog. And I do not really like dogs, so I went to investigate.” 

Hæfnir had most of his fist stuffed in his mouth, desperate not to laugh. Jomar was staring fixedly at his plate, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. 

“I drew my knife.” 

Another poorly concealed snort. Stiorra was staring to giggle herself now, in anticipation. 

“I walked to the door. I slowly opened it.” 

A small chorus of snorting. Everyone on the edge of their seats. “And I was confronted by this magnificent, wonderful, beautiful view of a…” she paused for dramatic effect. “A butt.” 

A massive snort came from her men. Asvard had his face in the crook of his elbow. Stiorra choked on her drink.

“WHAT?” Uhtred shouted, perplexed. 

“You heard me!” Drifa said indignantly. “A butt, an arse, a buttocks, bum. Derrière, if you’re a Frank.” She paused for a breath. “A butt!” She took two chicken legs and two bones laying them on her plate like a butt… but with something else. 

Stiorra began to understand.

“You mean to say,” began Sihtric. “That you walked in on someone… um,” he stopped, not wanting to say the word in front of Uhtred and in the presence of his daughter.

“Humping?” Stiorra said, innocently. There was silence. You could have heard a pin drop. 

Uhtred’s eyes widened. “Stiorra!” he admonished. 

The silence began again. Then all hell broke loose.

Hæfnir fell off his chair, taking his wife, who’d been sitting on his lap, with him. Sigbjorn fell face first in his food, prompting Ingemar to laugh at him so he shoved Ingemar’s face into his food. Asvard fell back off his chair. Finan and Sihtric clung to each other. Osferth had stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth. 

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Finan spluttered. “What did you do?”

“Well, what do you think I did? I turned tail and ran.” 

They started to laugh again. 

Drifa held up a hand. She was not finished. “And I spent the rest of the night at the tavern trying to forget what I had just seen.”

“Well, did you know who the arse belonged to?” asked a puzzled Osferth. 

There was a snort from Sihtric.

“I knew exactly who it belonged to. The funny part is that when I woke up, he was coming out of a house. But not the house I’d walked into.”

“So,” Finan sputtered, “are you saying he humped two different women in one night?” 

Everyone looked at her.

“That is precisely what I am saying.” 

Silence followed her words. When the hilarity exploded this time, Stiorra half expected soldiers to come running with how loud they all got.

When everyone had calmed down, Drifa spoke again. “Bear in mind that this happened a few years ago, when he went through a…” she paused, thinking of the right word, “rebellious streak.”

“Must have been one hell of a rebellious streak if he was humping two women in one night,” Finan joked.

“Oh, yes. His brothers gave him hell for that.”

“He reminds me of Hæfnir,” Unn recalled. 

Mutual agreement spread through the table. Hæfnir was still picking himself up off the floor.

Another hour of feasting, laughing and joking flew by. Drifa began ordering her people to bed (“To sleep ,” she emphasised) and Stiorra, exhausted, followed suit. 

She collapsed on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Tomorrow, she would be riding away, far away from here. Riding to Irland.

Stiorra was woken the next morning by someone shaking her. She opened her eyes, finding herself staring back into Drifa’s blue-green ones. Her eyes almost seemed to glow, even in the half-light of dawn. Seeing she was awake, Drifa left the room, her footsteps barely audible. 

Stiorra rubbed her eyes and glanced out the window. There was barely a sliver of sun visible on the horizon. Yawning and stretching, she got up, dressed, and tiptoed downstairs. Drifa’s men also seemed tired but were busily packing a few remaining things. Stiorra followed suit.

They crept out of the house, trying not to wake anyone. Drifa left a note on the table for Uhtred. They mounted their horses and rode off. They rode long and hard. There wasn’t much conversation, the noise of the horses was too loud. The wind whipped through Stiorra’s hair, stinging her eyes, but she kept them open, not wanting to miss one bit of this incredible journey. 

She was leaving home. She was going to Irland. 

She’d be able to live amongst her mother’s people, the people that had raised her father. She was no longer tied down and stuck in Coccham, waiting, and dreading the day she’d be forced to marry someone she despised. 

She was free.

They stopped only once, partly to relieve themselves and partly to eat. That was at midday. The next time Drifa called a halt, it was dark. 

Stiorra was exhausted. She almost collapsed getting off the horse. 

Unn cooked a stew for supper. It was eaten in silence, everyone too tired to talk. 

Once all the bowls were clean, Stiorra laid down on her bedroll and slept.

She was awoken the next morning by Drifa. Again. The sun was barely up. Stiorra groaned, leaving the warmth and softness of her bedroll for the cold hardness of the saddle. 

And again, they rode. Long and hard. Onwards and onwards. The trees and grass and hills seemed never-ending. Wessex was so much bigger than she had thought. They rode so fast; Stiorra was surprised that they had barely stopped. Drifa seemed desperate to get to Irland.

By evening, the party came to a stop at a port town called Bristou. Drifa arranged lodgings for the night while everyone else secured their horses. Stiorra was tying her horse in the stables when Thora, Frida and Mœid appeared at her shoulder. 

“We’re going to the market,” Thora informed. “Would you like to come?”

Stiorra eagerly accepted.

The market was bustling, even as the sun went down. There were stalls selling all kinds of things, things Stiorra had never seen before. There was gold jewellery from the Far East, swords and fabric from Frankia, furs and axes from Scandinavia. 

Stiorra was surprised. 

Danes were free to trade here.

She turned her head, left and right, not knowing where to look. 

Frida was looking at the Frankish linen, Thora and Mœid were admiring the jewellery. 

Stiorra could have sworn she saw Hæfnir at one of the stalls, buying something for his wife.

The fun ended too soon. Asvard came and told them that it was time to eat and then to sleep. “There is still another leg of the journey.”

The Innkeeper did not seem particularly happy about so many Danes sat at one of his tables, but Drifa’s silver kept him quiet. She seemed to have an endless supply.

 Stiorra wondered how she got it all. 

Over supper, Drifa finally told Stiorra why they had rushed so quickly to get there. “The Danes in Irland will need help if they do not already. Cnut should be going to help them, but I do not trust him. He is slippery.”

“Who’s in charge in Irland?” Stiorra asked. She was sure Drifa had mentioned it before, but she could not remember.

“Irland was conquered by Ivar the Boneless. It was passed to his son, Ivarr and now it is ruled by his sons: Ivar, Sigtryggr and Rognvaldr.”

“What are they like?”

“Ivar is… stupid, ugly and an arse. Rognvaldr is less ugly, but drunk and an arse. Sigtryggr is…” she paused. “Sigtryggr is smart, like his grandfather.”

“She paused because she thinks Sigtryggr is han-” Drifa’s cousin, Asfrid began.

“You shut your mouth!”

Asvard spat out his drink.

Much later, Stiorra lay on her bed, thinking about Irland. Thoughts were whirling round and round her head. What would Irland be like? What would its rulers be like? She’d said Ivar was stupid. Was he like Cnut? And Rognvaldr, a drunk. A drunk she could imagine. And then there was Sigtryggr. Smart as his grandfather. He had to be a formidable warrior.

Stiorra shook her head, trying to empty her mind of these thoughts. She couldn’t start obsessing over people she had never met. One last leg… That last leg on a boat. She’d never been on a boat.

Only a few more days until she stepped on non-English soil.

Stiorra threw up over the side of the boat. The wind blew some of it back in her face. 

Ingemar laughed. “Still have to find your sea legs!” he jeered. 

She glared at him while the others joined him in laughing. 

Drifa let out a small smile. She stood at the prow of the ship, looking out for Irland. 

Stiorra found that she liked a boat even less than a horse. A horse left pain in your head and your arse. A boat left waves of dizziness, followed by bouts of sickness. If she had to choose, she’d take the horse. When she did not feel sick, she gazed around her. If she squinted, she could see Wealas on one side, and a part of Irland on the other, barely a ghost on the horizon.

The sea churned beneath them again. Another vomiting session. The boat sailed further West. Soon enough, land was properly in sight. They docked on a beach near a village called Trá Mhór. 

“I will go in,” Drifa was saying. “We don’t know what has happened these last few years.”

“So, we stay on the boat?” Stiorra asked Thora.

“We stay on the boat,” she said, “and let Drifa find out what has happened. Then we will sail on to Deflyn.”

Drifa was gone until long after dark. When she came back, she told them that a rebellion had started forming. “They’ve raided a few villages, but apparently nothing serious enough to get Ivar’s attention.”

“Ivar ignores his people being killed?” Stiorra said, confused. What man did not care for his own people.

“Like I said. Stupid. Maybe I should have added another stupid,” Drifa joked.

“Ivar Ivarrsson does not give a shit about his people,” Asvard said. “As long as the Irish are not bothering him, safe in Deflyn, then no, he does not care.”

“Not all men are like your father,” Unn told her.

The boat began to move again. The sickness returned. By the afternoon of the next day, the end of the journey was in sight. 

“Feast your eyes on Deflyn!” Drifa announced. 

Deflyn was a small city, far smaller than Winchester. Its walls were made with wooden logs. Small watchtowers were dotted around the city. A few scouts were visible in the trees, but they did not bother the ship.

The ship was docked, and the group walked into the city of Deflyn. It was messy and crowded. There was a market street, traders shouting, showing off their wares. All kinds of things were sold. The market was almost as busy as Bristou had been, perhaps more so. Taverns were everywhere. Men already deep in their cups. Women sitting on their laps. A few people waved at Drifa. One man stumbled up and cheered, forgetting the woman who was now picking herself up off the floor. She punched the man in the face. The man, drunk as he was, tried to hit her and ended punching someone else. A tavern brawl in earnest.

This was what freedom looked like. What being a Dane looked like. This bustling city, with its wooden houses and noisy people. 

Stiorra loved it.

The party walked on to the Great Hall. It was easily the largest building there. Danish carving decorated the door frames. There were many windows all over. It was like a palace. The inside of it was full of smoke and rather stuffy. 

Stiorra could make out the vague shapes of men sitting at the long tables. Suddenly, the smoke cleared. She glanced at Drifa. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back. She had used her magic to clear the smoke. Stiorra turned her attention to the raised dais at the back of the hall.

A long table was perched on top. There were many seats, but only three men were actually sat there. The one on the left had long brown hair and a pointed face. A small beard covered his chin. Stiorra suspected that this must be Rognvaldr, particularly as the next thing he did was pick his mug of ale and drink deeply. 

She could not see the one on the right. He was shrouded in shadow. 

The middle one had stood, glaring warningly at the newcomers. He stomped around the table, and towards Drifa. Up close, Stiorra could see that he was large. His hair was red and long. His beard thick and streaked with grey. His eyes were a cold blue.

“Who are you, stranger?” he said, his voice harsh.

“I am many things. If it is my name you want, then ask for it,” Drifa retorted. “Otherwise, I shall go into the long meandering ramble of who I am.”

“Then your name.”

“My name is Jarl Drifa,” she told him. “And what might your name be?” 

He glared at her. 

She glared back. Then she broke into a wide grin and started laughing. 

His harsh expression shattered too, and he joined in. “She’s back!” he called to the Hall. The men too began to laugh. “Come, sit, eat, drink,” he offered, leading Drifa and her people to the table. 

Asvard pulled Stiorra along with him. He dumped her unceremoniously in the seat next to the man in the shadows. She turned to speak to him, but he got up and left. All she saw of him was the back of his head, his long mane of hair.

“So, tell us, Jarl Drifa,” Ivar was saying, “what new stories do you have to entertain us this time?!”

Rognvaldr noisily swallowed his food. “It had better not be another version of the story of my brother’s arse!” 

Asvard snorted into his ale.

“I could tell you of your own arse!” Drifa joked.

“You could tell us of this woman you have brought with you,” Ivar suggested. 

Stiorra did not like the way he was eyeballing her.

“Leave off the eye-fucking,” Jomar told him. 

Ivar raised an eyebrow at his language.

“Jomar,” Drifa sighed, “I swear, that one of these days, I am going to kill you.” She took a deep breath, and then yelled, “SHUT IT WITH THE LANGUAGE!” 

Asvard choked on his ale.

“Like you have any control either,” he spluttered.

“Faodaidh tu do bheul beag inneil a dhùnadh agus a bhith nas lugha de tholl asail,” she jabbered.

“Like I said.”

“What did she say,” asked Ivar.

“I told him to shut up.”

“You do know asail actually means donkey.” 

At this, Drifa splashed her ale in his face, to which he responded by punching her. The men cheered, egging them on. 

Stiorra half expected Ivar to put a stop to the fight, but he too joined in the egging.

Danes, she thought.

The feast lasted for many hours, and there were many more drinks and fights. A man, very drunk, tried to get Drifa to hump him. 

She replied by kicking him in between his legs. At some point, Drifa stumbled over and suggested that she take herself back to the house. 

Drifa had pointed out the street that she and her warriors lived on, and Stiorra was confident that she could make her way there. She lurched up, a little drunk herself, and began to slowly walk.

The night air outside the Hall was cool. Stiorra hadn’t realised how hot it was in there. She took a few deep lungfuls of the soothing air, and began to walk. Well, stumble. She was drunk enough that she did not look where she was going. Then she collided with something hard. 

That something hard turned out to be a Dane. This Dane turned to see what hit him and found himself looking at a small, drunk girl. He sneered. 

Stiorra started to back away. “Where are you going, woman?” he slurred. “Are you lost? I could help you find your way.”

Stiorra kept moving back. “I am going home. I know where I live.”

“It is not safe for a woman to be alone in these parts.” His hand shot out, catching her wrist. 

Stiorra struggled, trying to break free. 

“Stop fighting!” he ordered. “It will do you no good.” The Dane dragged her into an alley. 

She tried screaming, but he blocked her mouth. She wriggled, viciously, trying to dislodge herself. But the Dane was strong and huge. She heard a ripping noise. And she begged the gods to save her.

A whoosh, then a thwack, and the Dane was pushed off her. Stiorra fell face first into the ground. She glanced behind her, wondering who her saviour was. 

The Dane who’d tried to attack her was getting up on his feet, but there was another Dane. Her helper punched the man again. And again. And soon, the Dane who attacked her was no longer moving. 

The other rose, turning his attention to her. He came towards her, and she backed away. But he knelt down, holding his hand up. “ I will not harm you, ” was all he said. 

Stiorra stopped moving. 

She could only see a sliver of his face, an eye. An ice-blue eye. Like Ivar’s. Only this one was warmer. 

He held out his hand to her and she took it. His hand was warm and rough. His eyes (for she assumed there was another) looked her up and down. He released her hand and shrugged out of his tunic. He held it out. 

She took it, pulling it down over her own head. It smelled of leather and iron. A nice smell. 

He offered her his hand again and pulled her up. She stumbled slightly, and strong, muscled arms caught her. He picked her up and carried her. 

She still said nothing, wondering at this handsome stranger who saved her. Her drunkenness was causing her to become dizzy, so she still could not see his face.

He carried her to the houses that Drifa had mentioned. 

Stiorra wondered if this was perhaps one of her other men. The ones who’d been sent before. 

He knocked on a door and it opened to reveal Torgärd. 

She gasped at seeing Stiorra’s beaten and bruised state.

Stiorra faintly heard her thanking the man and began pulling her inside.

“Wait,” Stiorra said. “Who are you?”

She turned around to see him better.

“I am Sigtryggr.”

[pedge-page]

Mother Who Provides

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: based off this lovely ask for sub Joel wanting to breastfeed and get jerked off, and hella Mommy kink!

Warnings: Sub!Joel, Mommy kink, breastfeeding, lactation, praise, love biting, assisted m masturbation, male orgasm, cum eating, little belly stuffing because this bitch just loves his Mommy's milk sm

18 + ONLY

- - - -

The first time Joel watched you breastfeed your newborn baby had him feeling all kinds of—different inside. You weren’t totally aware of it at first, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off you. Every time you got up to go feed the little one, he was always within the same room, or meandering in the hall pretending to carry the laundry, or just finding an excuse to sit across from you and watch. 

He thought it was just an awe—here’s the woman of his dreams who just single handedly grew a whole human being in her belly, then pushed it out all by herself after 13 hours of labor, and now is nurturing his child from her own body. You were like a miracle who just kept giving. 

His cock getting hard was just the excitement of how amazing women were. That’s it.

But you had started to notice other things that were strange in his behavior. One time you had gotten up at 3am to feed the baby, Joel still asleep by your side. When you had finished and crawled back in to bed, reaching out for the warm security of his body, he wasn’t there. You groggily waddled down to the kitchen to find your husband chugging a gallon of whole milk like a fish out of water. His eyes fell upon you,  the way you yawned, dressed in a dissheveled night gown and asked if he’s ok, unaware that you were rubbing your sore breasts in your palm. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, predatory eyes wide as he stares at your chest, ready to pounce on you like a wolf.

You knew pretty well right then what his little “problem” was. 

From then on, you intentionally were seeking him out in tighter shirts so he could see your bouncing swollen breasts more clearly, leaning over in front of him more often, or just straight up asking if he could give you a tits massage. Complaining about how “sore” they felt, or not wanting your milk to go to waste since the baby couldn’t drink it all even after having an entire freezer full. 

You feint a sigh. “Maybe I should donate it…”

“NO!” He shouts a little louder than he intended. “I mean… uh.” He coughs, unable to think of a reasonable excuse.

“Yeah? Who else is going to drink it, Joel?” You taunt. Joel was a tough man, but admitting things that he wanted was difficult to force out of him.

“I—I mean we—we could—“ he shook his head and went to sit on the couch. “Sorry, I mean. That’s a great idea. You should do that. Be nice for other moms.”

Joel wrings his hands together and looks away, clearing his throat.

You stride over to him and straddle his hips, his pupils going big with shock. You sit up on your knees with him caged under you, your breasts level with his nose as you rub your fingers through his brown curly hair. “Is that what you want?”

You can see the way his eyes are trained forward, looking at the swollen nipples poking through your tank top. He swallows heavily and licks his lips, hands resting on your waist, fighting the urge to bite.

“No…” he whispers softly.

“No? Is there someone else who should get Mommy’s milk?” You tease.

He closes his eyes, a low growl rumbling in his throat. 

“Speak, baby boy.”

“M-Me,” he says, head tilted up to you as he nuzzles the scruff of his cheek into your chest. You cup his head to firmly press his face harder, his nose gliding along the cleavage as he inhales your scent sharply. His hands creep up along your sides before grasping the droopy fat of the underside of your breasts, making you gasp.

You don’t even need to sit down on him fully to feel the tent poking your clit as you hover over him. He squeezes your tits roughly before wrapping his teeth around a nipple and tugging gently, releasing it with a satisfying bounce back in to place. The result was a slight damp spot around the peak where a drip of your milk seeped out. 

And Joel Miller fucking whimpers for the first time in his life.

You hum in delight. “Can you ask Mommy nicely?”

He doesn’t hesitate: “Please, can I have Mommy’s milk?”

Holy fuck, you’re a sucker for your man.

-

Now a half hour later, Joel is still greedily suckling at your tit as if being starved his whole life. You’re sitting on the couch  while cradling Joel’s head in your lap, having him lying down on his back in the perfect position for the milk in your breasts to just flow right into his hungry mouth.

His eyes are closed, jaw working open as his lips suction tightly, gulping your sweetness. You stroke the greying hairs on his cheek, feeling the way he hums contently vibrate against your skin.

He feels safe like this, in such a vulnerable position. The idea of protecting you, being on guard, defensive, all of that stress melts away while being swaddled by you. He can let go of worry, of anxiety, taking deep breaths and feeding soothingly under the gently, nurturing embrace of his beautiful, life-giving wife.

You had palmed his hard-on the entire time, not releasing it quite yet until you were satisfied with how full his tummy had grown. You could even hear the little sloshes of bubbles in his stomach as it filled with new nutrients. He’d let out a tiny whimper, milk caught in his throat when you’d squeeze around his base possessively before returning to your palming. His precum smears along his thigh and shorts. 

“You’re so hungry, baby,” you coo, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “This whole time you just wanted a taste of Mama’s milk, hmm?”

He nods absentmindedly, refusing to let go of your golden titty. 

Unsatisfied with his response, you grip his hair and yank his head down, his lips detaching and falling away from your breast. He lets out a needy whine and stares at you. “Y-yes Mommy. Wanted your milk. Please can I have some more?”

You giggle and nod. His tongue darks out to lick the little drips that had trickles down before attaching back to your nipple and suckling happily.

You pull his throbbing length out though the hole in his boxers. “Gimme a little spit,” you command softly.

Joel sits his head up, cheeks full of milk. You put your hand out in front of his lips as he release the creamy substance into your palm. Your newly silkened hand finds its way back to wrap around his base before stroking him. 

“Ohhhhh f-fuck Mommy!” he groans, eyes closed and leaning back against your thigh. But the sensation was too good, hips bucking up that he had to force his chin back up to continue watching. Your fingers expertly curled around his mushroom tip with each pass, the assistance of the milk acting as a lubricant. He licked his upper lick, his leg twitching with how hot it felt. You lean forward a bit and push your tit closer to his lips again. His eyes dart to you, tongue sticking out to capture your nipple again before resuming his impatient guzzling.

“Naughty, boy, getting all hard when drinking from Mommy’s tit.” You swirl his slit with the tip of your nail, his steady flow of precut oozing out and mixing with the milk. You feel his throat flex with each stutter, his mind reeling in and out of sanity, fists balled at his sides to avoid taking control. Joel’s lips were a sin everywhere else on your body, and this moment was no different. They were full, pouty, and his lower lip juts out enough to be able to easily catch your nipple and hold on with each insatiable gulp.

“Maybe I should bottle it up and let you bring it to work with you. Can share your special bottle with the other boys,” you laugh.

Joel growls angrily, browns crunched as he bites your nipple possessive. 

You hiss out in pain, fisting his curls once again. “Ow! Bite me again and you’re done,” you warn. His face relaxes, eyes staring up at you with sorrow as you resume your pace pumping his shaft.

“Ah-m srorry—Momm-ee,” he mumbles against the fat of your breasts, soothing over his bite mark with his warm wet tongue. 

You sigh deeply. The weight on your chest is almost fully lifted now that Joel has swallowed so much of the milk that had built up.

Your baby was just so little right now, there was only so much he could fill in his tiny body, leaving you aching, heavy, and swollen all day and night. But your full grown 5’11 200 pound hunk of a husband? He could drink for HOURS and drain you completely so that fresh milk can replenish your system just for your baby. 

“Maybe we should make your feeding a regular thing too. Would you like that?” You hum. You increase the speed of your hand, now jerking his cock violently.

“Ahh—ah! Ye-oh fuck, fuck Mommy—yes, yes I want it!”

“Yeah? You wanna be full of Momma’s milk all the time? Bet you wanna cum too. Taking such good care of me, I think you deserve a reward.”

He swallows another big load before his panting forces him away, creamy liquid spilling over his cheeks. “Ah—ugh-ugh oh fuck, fuck yeah! Wanna cum, wanna cum on Mommy’s hand, please! Please, keep tuggin’ my dick just like that, Fuck! FUCK yes Mommy!”

His mouth falls open, breath caught in his throat as you feel his hips raising off the couch slightly. You take the opportunity to lean forward and shove as much of your tits in his mouth as you can, suffocating him. His eyes roll back as the first of his cum spews up into the air, followed up big spurts rapidly shooting as you violently work his cock.

“Shhhh, that’s it, that’s my good boy, keep cumming all over Mommy’s hand, such a good boy. Don’t forget keep drinking your special milk. Mommy made it just for you.” You bite your lip at the idea of motherhood just falling so easily over you.

His whole body shutters, moaning and sucking around your breasts, unsure what to do with himself as he keeps cumming in your hand. His dick pulses the last of his spent, dribbling globs of sticky, thick semen all over your fingers and his full stomach. He quivers from the overstimulation, suppressing a burp. 

You remove your hand, caressing the heft of his bulging stomach just as he takes a deep breath through his nose, calming his breathing. He opens his eyes to see you licking the glorious mess of his cum off of your palm, each finger dipping in to your sinful mouth and sucking his spend clean. 

“Fuuucckkkk, that’s hot. Eatin my cream when I drink yours.” His eyes are positively drunk off of you. He babbles quickly: “Wanna keep ya milkin’ every year. Kids or not. These tits are mine. Keep me stuffed full of ya sweet cream, Momma. Never need to buy dairy again. Just drink it straight from the tap.”

You grab his hands down by his side and bring them up to your tits, guiding him to rub your sore breasts gently. “Gotta work them up to get more in you.”

Joel doesn’t argue, taking over the movement and squeezing your breast like icing bag, bringing your nipple back down to his lips as he milks more of your love into his mouth.

- - - -

Permanent taglist

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrs-oharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg

[incompletemelody]

the problem with getting into a show after it’s all dropped is irrecoverably shipping a couple that didn’t get enough screen time and needing a spin-off for them asap

[thalys-artcorner]

“You showed the spirit of a True Warrior”

Finan and Eadith from The Last Kingdom. Or as I like to say, one badass lady and her simping, lovestruck himbo.

[artsykidwolf-2000]

Hey guys I'm thinking of redrawing/drawing something. Any ideas on what I should redraw? It can be from my Tumblr or my Instagram (user in description, it's the same icon as this account). I was going through memory lane and thought it would be nice to draw something.

Any ideas?

Also up for suggestions (bc I thought of my little short stories in GoW and Final fantasy)

[willyoufindmetlk]

Goodnight, My Love - Sigtryggr x Stiorra

Stiorra’s muscles ached in her back as the day’s work caught up with her. Every day the city was improving and more people were coming to Jorvik. Seeing their people happy and living in peace made the long days worth it. Her belly was full from the night’s feast and now the bed was calling her name.

But first, her body called for a hot bath. The serving women had heated water and poured it into the tub. She undressed and submerged herself in the water. She sighed with relief as her muscles loosened and relaxed. She closed her eyes, letting herself fully relax.

Sigtryggr finished the remainder of his ale before bidding a goodnight to Wolland. He walked up the stairs to the room he shared with his wife. He still hadn’t gotten used to saying that, even after being married to Stiorra for almost a year. When he walked into the room, he saw her enjoying a bath.

He smiled, “How is the water?”

“Perfect,” she smiled.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, kneeling down in front of the tub.

“I’d thought you would never ask,” she smirked.

Letting out a laugh, he stands up and walks over to the dresser. He removes his rings, placing them on the table and finishes undressing the rest of his clothing. He squeezes into the water, behind his wife, wrapping his arms around her. He kisses the top of her head when she leans against him.

“You are right, this is perfect,” he laughed. “We should do this more often.”

Stiorra nodded.

“How was your talk with Wolland?” She asked.

“It went well,” he nodded. “We’ve decided to send a small group of men to check in with our men at the borders.”

Stiorra nodded, “Will you go with them?”

“Not this time,” he said. “I’d much rather spend the day with my wife.”

She laughed, “But we have work that must be done.”

“Aye, we do,” he whispered. “But it is nothing that cannot wait.”

She turned her head to look at him before pressing her lips against his. He smiled into the kiss, pulling her closer to him. Once the water turns cold, the two get out and dry off. Stiorra walked over towards the window, looking out of the city in the moonlight. Sigtryggr wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, placing his chin on her shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?” she asked.

“For coming with me. For being by my side through all of this. For creating a peaceful land for our people,” he whispered.

She smiled, leaning into him, “You know I never pictured this life for me, but now that I am here with you, I would not want another life.”

“I love you,” he whispered, looking into her eyes.

She placed her hands on either side of his cheeks, “And I love you.”

He smiled, pulling her closer to him for a kiss, “Come, we should head to bed,” he whispered, lifting her up.

Stiorra lets out a small laugh as he carries her towards their bed. They both lay down, arms wrapped around the other.

“Goodnight, my love,” she whispered, laying her head on his chest.

“Goodnight, my Queen,” he smiled, kissing her head and closing his eyes.

[kessielrg]

Installed Wine on my Linux machine, so now I can use .exe applications- which means I can use yWriter again. There are three fics I have projects for, and one even managed to have its cold open written today! For anyone who wanted more of the Knight!Ventus fic (Someone to Watch Out for You), enjoy the spoils under the read more!

(this doesn’t mean the fic is coming anytime soon- I’m just trying to organize my thoughts again)

. . .

He opened his eyes to pitch black darkness. His next instinct was to growl in contempt. He was alive. He was aware. And, above all else, he hated that he could recognize this place when it shouldn't have been possible. The young man got up from his resting spot with relative ease. He raised his arms in stretch as he mumbled to himself, "How annoying. Being brought back here..." Despite this, he did not immediately leave. Instead he turned his attention to the only building on this excuse of a world. It was not the castle he remembered, but that could easily be chalked up to whatever his master had done in the past. He had been resting for a long time, after all. Things were bound to change. But this? This was a display of power beyond just what his master had been capable of. The young man gave a smirk. He knew the other master that could have  created such a building- it would have been within her title to do so. With nothing to lose, the young man started toward the entrance to this castle of oblivion. Perhaps he'd find something interesting- something that would tell him where his other half was. There were things that needed to be done now, and finding that persistent light had to be one of them. "Do not take another step forward," a voice from behind the young man demanded. The young man gave a smirk as he turned around. "And just what are you going to do to stop me?" he asked with a good measure of smugness laced in his voice. "I've been asleep for a long, long time. I need the exercise." The man standing before him had silver hair and wore a long black coat- much like the one his master once wore. If anything, this man almost reeked with the same essence his master had. Darkness. That man before him no longer possessed a heart, and all that remained was a body of darkness that retained its will of the previous person that was once there. The young man's hands clenched. If he had to fight through this man, then so be it. There was no way he would go along with anyone so easily now that he was free from the child's heart. "I understand that you will be... difficult." the man told him. "I am also aware of why you are existing now when your previous form has long since been exhumed from this world." "Bold of you to assume I was ever 'real' to begin with." "True." the man agreed, much to the young man's surprise. "But that is not why I'm intervening with you. I've met the boy your being was tied to. I have also met another anomaly that came from his heart during that critical moment days ago. Come with me. Join in your master's vision with Organization XIII. You can shape the boy's Nobody into a creature that will allow more light to fall into the will your master wished for." The young man snorted. "No thanks. I'm not going to babysit some brat because 'my master' said so. If you're here, that means he isn't. Catch my drift, old man?" The man gave a smirk. For a moment, the young man expected a fight. "Very well." the man said instead. "Then may I propose something else entirely? I know where Ventus is. I know that you wish to seek him, as all darkness must seek light. The fight that could have once transpired between you will not beget the x-blade should you meet again- that time in fate has passed. Instead, you could... bring to light other parts of Ventus that still lay dormant. Histories of memories that could make you stronger as well. Regardless, you will need to be prepared for the next Keyblade war. Join the Organization, or find Ventus. There is no room for error, Vanitas." "Well," the young man entertained as he withdrew his Keyblade, "If those are my only options... then I guess it's time for a family reunion."

[fan-fantasies]

Hey guys... its Breezy. I have a strange request... im having the worst week ever, it's been so hard to motivate myself to do anything.

Would anyone be willing to write me a fluffy short fic. I don't even care who it's for. It can be kpop, stranger things, supernatural, marvel, the last kingdom (I now kinda watch this) anything. I just need something to make me smile. Please. I would really appreciate it... just tag us. I'll share them as well. Thank you guys and thank you all for 5200 followers. I know I don't write much but the small amount i do, I appreciate the support.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Little Warrior

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson (The Last Kingdom) x F!Reader Warnings: Canon typical violence and death, kidnapping, slight Stockholm syndrome, attempted sexual assault, sexual tension, coercion, corruption kink, talk of religious beliefs, female masturbation, loss of virginity, smut. Word count: 4.6k

Summary: When Sigtryggr and his men seize Winchester he takes a special interest in one of their captives (I have essentially yeeted Stiorra from the story and adapted the storyline of how her and Sigtryggr become an item to suit my own). Based on this request.

Author's note: For my beloved @valeskafics No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

They come in the night. As Winchester sleeps, the Danes descend upon it.

She is woken by the blood curdling shouts and screams of the townspeople, accompanied by the acrid stench of smoke from nearby burning buildings.

Her heart lurches in her chest, panic causing bile to rise in her throat as she acts purely on instinct, scrambling from her bed and out of the house wearing just her nightdress. The only thought in her mind is that she doesn’t want to die trapped in her home as it’s burned to the ground.

Once she is outside, she watches wide eyed with horror at the destruction around her. Buildings are ablaze, people lay dead and dying upon the ground, the thick coppery scent of blood makes her want to vomit.

It’s only when the coolness of the night air begins to chill her skin that she realises just how perilous her situation is - a thin layer of cotton is all that separates her flesh from the horrors around her. She worries about what these Heathens will do to her if they see her in such a state of undress.

She trembles at the thought, dread gnawing at her insides. It’s too risky to go back inside, her only option is to hide. She takes her chances beneath an overturned farmer’s cart, crawling beneath the gap and cowering, waiting for the chaos around her to die down.

Clutching the cross around her neck, she sends up a silent prayer to God to keep her safe. Her destiny is in his hands now.

The aching in her joints for having been crouched for so long is beginning to become unbearable when the noise eventually quietens. She wonders if the Danes have left, if King Edward will return to rescue Winchester or if they have managed to capture it in his absence. Where are the Wessex guard?

She freezes when she hears the sound of approaching boots upon the ground, her heart hammers wildly against her ribcage when they come to a stop in front of the cart she’s hiding under.

“I can see your feet, Christian”, comes the voice of a man. He speaks softly and quietly, and it sends shivers down her spine.

Too paralyzed by fear to do anything, she remains as she is, her breaths coming quick and shallow, a rapidly dying hope in the back of her mind that he might give up and leave her alone. But there is no such luck.

“You will come out,” he commands, “or I will drag you out, the choice is yours.”

She clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the frightened whimper that escapes her, attempting to force herself further back against the wooden confines of her misguided hiding place.

A large hand appears beneath the cart, reaching towards her before wrapping itself around her ankle.

She shrieks, thrashing against the hold it has on her as she’s dragged out. She lays wide eyed on the cold earth, her breathing erratic, as she looks with terror upon the Dane that towers above her prone form.

His long brown hair is wild and unkempt, half of it pulled back, and a ragged scar runs the length of the left side of his face. He regards her with mild amusement and she becomes aware again of her state of undress.

The thought that he might rape her sends her senses into overdrive, pure adrenaline driving her decision making. She knows she’s in no position to run, her only other option is to fight him, so as he crouches down towards her, she lunges upwards, slapping and scratching at his face and shoulders.

He is quick to overpower her, pulling her to her feet and twisting her arm behind her back.

“A fearsome little warrior, she is,” he chuckles, keeping her arm taut behind her as he gently urges her forward. 

He guides her towards the front steps of the King’s estate, where several people are kneeling before a group of Danes. As they draw closer she recognises a few of them; King Edward’s sons and a few of the Wessex guard.

She is certain she’ll be killed. The man presses on her shoulder, urging her to kneel beside the other captives. She takes up her position, the stone step is hard against her knees, and she is all too aware that she is the least valuable of everyone gathered there.

“Send them to where they keep their dead King,” the man says, looking at Edward’s children and then nodding towards the chapel.

“We need to send a message to Edward,” a dark haired, heavily pregnant woman says, as two of the Danish men pick up the boys and carry them off. “We must force him to yield Winchester to us.”

It makes her shudder to think that this woman will be a mother, when she is capable of such atrocities. 

“And what do you propose, Brida?” He responds.

Brida regards her with a look that makes her blood run cold. She has never seen anyone look at her as though she is worth less than nothing, her brown eyes are filled with utter contempt. “Send him her head,” she tells him, “it is more shocking to Christians when you are prepared to kill women and children alike.”

She gasps audibly, stricken by terror at the notion that they intend to behead her, until she feels his hand upon her shoulder.

“You will not touch her,” he says cooly, “slaughter the men, but she stays with me.”

“And what will you do with her?” Brida asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That is for me to decide,” he responds dismissively.

He makes a cut throat gesture at the Danes that flank Brida, then nods towards the kneeling guards, before pulling her back to her feet and directing her inside of the King’s estate.

She winces as she hears the sound of blades making thick, wet impact upon flesh, followed by dying screams of agony. Despite her shock and disgust, she cannot help the twinge of relief that lightens the feeling in her chest that that is not what destiny has in store for her, at least not yet.

The room that he brings her to is what she assumes is a study. It is filled with books, maps and writing materials, the space is occupied by a wooden writing desk, a chair and a settee.

As her eyes travel around the room, taking in her surroundings, she’s startled out of her reverie when her gaze settles back upon him. He is standing so close, silently observing her, his expression unreadable.

Once more she is reminded of how little she is wearing, and now that she is alone with him, fear of what he might do to her returns in earnest.

“S-stay back,” she stammers, backing away, eyes scanning the room for something, anything, that she can use as a weapon.

He smirks, unmoving, as he looks her over from head to toe. “Be calm, little warrior. Do you know who I am?”

Her face contorts in confusion. “No…”

He straightens, tilting his head slightly, clasping his arms behind his back. “I am Sigtryggr Ivarsson. I am a Dane. If I wish to hump a woman I do not need to do so by force.”

She softens slightly, fear does not grip her heart quite so icily as before. His name is meaningless to her, but she is relieved that he means her no harm.

Sigtryggr leans in, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. “But make no mistake, little warrior, I will have you, and you will beg me for it.”

She draws back quickly in disgust - not at his words, but at the reaction they elicit from her. The way warmth pools in her lower belly fills her with immense guilt. This man has invaded her home and killed people she knows, people she loves, she should despise him.

Swallowing thickly, unease prickling at her, she elects to change the subject. “What have you come here for?”

“To take what I am owed,” he says simply.

“And what is it you believe you’re owed?”

“Land. Your people drove me from mine,” he explains, anger lacing his tone, “your boy King will give back what he stole, or I shall keep Winchester and send him the heads of his children.”

She inhales shakily, feeling like she wants to cry. “A-and…how do I factor into all of that?”

He softens, shrugging slightly. “You don’t, but I can’t imagine your King will yield quickly, and it is always nice to have company. You are brave, for a Christian.”

“So I am your prisoner?”

“No, little warrior. You are free to leave any time you’d like, and take your chances with Brida.”

The implication is not lost on her. Her freedom is an illusion when the alternative is death. Sigtryggr is her only guarantee for safety.

“Shall we find something else for you to wear?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

She looks down at the thin material of her shift, seeing how dirty it is from having been crouched beneath the cart, dragged out and then forced to kneel on the steps of the estate. Her cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Yes, please,” she whispers.

He nods. “Wait here.”

Sigtryggr leaves her alone in the study, not bothering to lock the door behind him - a sign of his confidence that he knows she won’t try to escape.

He returns a few moments later with a white cotton shift that is similar to the one she is currently wearing, She assumes it belongs to Ælflæd, something he has found within a bedchamber.

“Where is the rest of it?” She asks.

“What do you mean? It’s the same as what you have on, and it’s clean,” he says simply.

“Yes, but this is meant to go under–” she sighs, “nevermind.”

She takes the shift from him and begins to change, noting the way that he turns from her, keeping his eyes fixed on the shelves of books that line the walls of the room. The small mark of respect makes her smile. She had not anticipated such manners from a Heathen.

He pulls a book from the shelf when she is finished, flipping through its pages. “Can you read?”

She nods and he hands the tome to her.

“Read to me.”

“Can you not read?” She asks with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I can,” he says with a smirk, “but where’s the fun in that?”

She sighs, settling into the chair in front of the writing desk, while Sigtryggr sits upon the settee a few feet away, and she reads to him.

Over the next few weeks their days are spent much like this. She reads aloud to him, though none of the books are particularly interesting, mostly religious texts and historical records of Wessex. She’s not convinced that he pays any particular attention to the words, but he seems to enjoy the sound of her voice.

They find a Hnefatafl board and Sigtryggr teaches her how to play. They while away hours strategising ways to remove each other's pieces from the board. He has a sharp mind, is calmer and more analytical than any other Dane she’s ever met. He bests her with his cunning multiple times, until she finally begins to get the hang of it and he begins to lose to her.

“Another game?” She asks. “How many have I won now?”

He shoots her a sideways glance, a faint smile upon his lips. “I am not keeping count.”

She giggles. She is beating him, but he does not seem to mind.

They sleep upon furs and blankets that Sigtryggr has brought down to the study and fashioned into a makeshift bed. Her stomach flutters at laying in such close proximity to him, but true to his word he never touches her. Shame blooms hotly in her chest as each of the days pass and she finds herself yearning for it.

He brings her food, and the hopelessness of the situation looms over her as with every meager meal the bread tastes more stale.

“Read to me, little warrior,” he requests, reclining on the settee, his forearm slung over his forehead.

She grouses, hunger pangs causing her stomach to rumble painfully. “I cannot concentrate,” she whispers.

“What is the matter?” He asks, sitting up to look at her.

“I am hungry. I’m always hungry.”

He nods, stepping towards her and offering her his share of the bread.

She looks from his outstretched hand to his face uncertainly. “What will you eat?”

“I will manage, and you will read to me,” he tells her, as she takes the offering and he settles back down.

She smiles to herself at the gesture, warmth spreading throughout her. So she eats, and she reads to him.

Sigtryggr disappears each day, leaving her alone in the study. She only leaves to bathe and to relieve herself, but she is perfectly happy to stay put and await his return, especially when she is all too aware of the alternative.

Each day when he returns he brings news of the continuing siege. King Edward and the Wessex guard surround the walls of Winchester, but will not attack as his sons are being kept captive in the chapel. They have yet to yield to Sigtryggr’s demands for land.

She fiddles with the cross around her neck, eyeing the Mjölnir that sits around his carefully. “Can there not be a peaceful resolution?”

"It is more difficult to live peacefully with enemies than to fight them,” he tells her.

“But we live peacefully,” she retorts.

“We are not enemies, little warrior.”

The sentiment makes her heart flutter, though there is the lingering question in the back of her mind; what are we?

He leaves her alone again as usual one morning and she busies herself poring over maps to pass the time.

She turns when she hears footsteps, expecting to see Sigtryggr but instead it is a man she does not recognise. He appears Saxon, so she cannot understand why the Danes have allowed him to move around the estate so freely.

The stench of ale upon him as he draws closer is nauseating. His eyes hold malicious intent as he advances towards her, and her blood runs cold at the sight.

She stands, backing away from him. “Whatever you are planning to do, please reconsider,” she pleads, “Sigtryggr will punish you if anything happens to me.”

“I have allied myself with the Danes,” he slurs, “but at what cost? They treat me like a dog, while Sigtryggr coddles you. Tell me, whore, is your cunt really that good? Perhaps I ought to find out for myself.”

She yelps as he lunges for her, grabbing her and pinning her against the desk. Fury flashes through her as she struggles against him, attempting to free herself from his hold.

“Whatever treatment they give you, you have brought upon yourself, traitor,” she spits.

Her head snaps to the side, a sharp sting spreads across her cheek as he strikes her.

She barely has time to adjust her focus before she feels him forcefully being pulled off of her.

“Eardwulf!” Sigtryggr snarls angrily. “Fucking coward!”

His fist makes impact with Eardwulf’s face knocking him to the ground, before he is dragged away.

She curls up on the furs, shaking as tears stream down her cheeks, waiting for her heart rate to calm. What could have happened to her if Sigtryggr had not returned when he did doesn’t bear thinking about.

She is unsure of how much time has passed when he returns.

“Are you alright?”

She turns towards the sound of his voice, gasping when she sees he’s covered in blood. Rushing towards him, she places her hands upon his face. “You are hurt…”

Softly he grasps her wrists, keeping her hands where they are. “This blood is not mine, and Eardwulf will not hurt you ever again.”

Her lips part in shock at the thought that he has killed for her, saved her life twice now. She studies his face, taking in the stormy blue of his eyes, the fullness of his lips.

She allows her gaze to linger there for just a moment too long, embarrassment making her hot, eager to distract herself. She traces a finger over the scar that runs the length of the left side of his face.

“How did this happen?”

“A man tried to take my eye during battle,” he explains softly, “so I took his life.”

“But you were hurt.”

“Injured, yes. Left with a scar, yes. But very much alive.”

“As am I, thanks to you.”

She drops her hands from his face and he steps away from her, pulling off his blood soaked light armour and clothing.

She feels her throat run dry at the sight of his bare torso, all lean, lithe battle hardened muscle, adorned with scars. She longs to trace her fingers over each of them.

Looking away, she feels ashamed for harbouring such thoughts and desperately tries to ignore the throbbing ache in her core.

As night falls and Sigtryggr lays asleep beside her, the feeling that lingers between her legs has yet to subside. It is maddening, robbing her of rest. Every time she closes her eyes the image of him stood bare chested before her enters her mind.

She has never touched herself before, it is impure to do so, yet she needs relief or she is sure she will go mad.

Sparing a glance in the darkness towards Sigtryggr, she makes sure his eyes are closed before reaching a tentative hand between her legs. She lets out a shaky sigh as her fingers make impact against the sensitive flesh.

She is not quite sure what she is supposed to do, but finds that a combination of rubbing the area and bucking softly against her hand feels most pleasurable, so continues to do that, holding her free hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds she makes.

There is a feeling that builds within her, a zenith that she feels she must press towards, so she continues in earnest, until finally she feels something within her release and her entire body shudders, a soft moan stifled against her lips as white hot pleasure rolls through her body.

Laying there afterwards she does her best to calm her breaths, feeling guilty for having done something so depraved.

She is startled by Sigtryggr’s voice beside her. “If only you’d beg, little warrior, I could do that for you.”

Her breath hitches and she quickly turns away from him. Not knowing what to say, she feigns sleep, clutching her cross and praying silently that he’ll forget.

She is grateful when he speaks of it no further, and life goes back to normal, or at least what normal is for them.

That is until a couple of weeks later when Brida storms her way into the study, clearly having grown impatient with the lack of progress being made.

“It has been more than thirty days since we captured Winchester, and your negotiations with the Saxon King are not working, Sigtryggr,” she glowers at him, “the time for talking is over. We are killing more captives.”

She does not miss the way that Brida’s eyes linger upon her as she says this, a shiver of fear causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh.

“I will choose who we execute, not you,” Sigtryggr tells her.

“You cannot protect this Saxon forever,” Brida retorts.

“Oh, but I can,” he says, placing himself protectively between her and Brida. “She is mine, and I will decide what happens to her.”

Brida scoffs, turning and leaving. Sigtryggr follows, leaving her alone to ponder the fact that he has once more saved her life.

When he comes back several hours later, he looks so tired. The expression he wears is one of defeat and she feels her heart ache for him.

“Read to me,” he says softly, sitting heavily upon the settee.

She regards him quietly, she wants to comfort him. She wants to comfort herself. She has grown weary of denying him.

Before she has time to think about what she’s doing, she crosses the room, and places herself upon his lap, her thighs astride his.

“What are you do–”

His words are cut off as she presses her lips to his eagerly, before pulling away. “I’m begging, Sigtryggr, please. I–”

He surges forward, kissing her again, his mouth possessing hers hungrily as he grasps her hips, lifting her as he stands to deposit her onto the makeshift bed upon the floor, his body caging hers in against the furs.

“I knew you’d give in, little warrior,” he whispers against her neck, kissing his way down her throat to her collarbone.

His fingers toy with the hem of the shift she wears, a silent plea for consent in his eyes as he looks at.

She swallows thickly and nods, nervousness and excitement fluttering ceaselessly in her stomach.

He pulls the garment over her head, throwing it to the side before sitting back on his haunches to admire her.

“Gods…you were worth the wait. So beautiful,” he whispers reverently.

She squirms beneath his gaze, turning her head away at the intimacy of the gesture, feeling shy and uncomfortable.

“Look at me,” he tells her softly. His fingers grasp her jaw, turning her face back to him.

Slowly he undresses, until he is as naked as she is. She feels the familiar ache between her thighs as she drinks in the sight of him, chiseled and battle hardened.

“Now we are equal,” he reassures her.

He reaches for the cross around her neck, toying with it between his fingers, before giving a quick, hard tug, causing the cord to give way. “What we are about to do is no business of your nailed god,” he tells her, tossing it to one side.

He kisses her once more, slower this time, their mouths saving the feel of the other’s against it. Trailing featherlight kisses down her body until he reaches her breasts, he wraps his lips around one of their hardened peaks, sucking gently.

The sensation causes her to moan, a pleasurable sensation shooting through her body, pooling into wet warmth between her legs as she arches against him. 

Sigtryggr repeats the motion on the opposite breast, before descending further down, leaving wet kisses in his wake.

She freezes up when he grips her thighs, placing them over his shoulders so that his face is level with her most intimate of parts.

“What…what are you doing?” She asks anxiously.

“I’m going to taste you,” he says matter of factly, making pointed eye contact.

“You cannot do that,” she protests weakly, “it is an unclean thing to do.”

He grins at her, shaking his head slightly. “Christian,” the word leaves his mouth as a half hearted insult, before he presses forward.

The first swipe of his tongue against her folds causes her to gasp, her hands burying themselves in his hair as he uses his grip on her thighs to pull her closer, his tongue moving against her firmer, deeper, faster.

A groan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, the vibrations causing her insides to clench as she bucks against his face, chasing the edge of oblivion that his tongue is pressing her towards.

He sucks at her pearl, before laving his tongue over it and she cries out as she spasms against his mouth, ecstasy numbing all of her senses as he continues to lap at her.

Once she relaxes, he pulls away, sitting back between her legs, his chin slick with her juices. His fist runs over the length of his cock as he takes in her blissful state and her eyes widen as she sees the size of him.

He is thick, long and slightly curved. She has never looked upon anyone’s manhood before and she trembles as she wonders how it will possibly fit inside of her.

Sensing her trepidation, Sigtryggr caresses her cheek with his palm. “Relax, little warrior, I have prepared you well.”

He presses the head of himself against her entrance and she braces herself, but then he stops. Her eyes flit to his questioningly.

“Beg for it,” he whispers.

She whines, wanting to hide her face in furs that they lay upon.

“Beg,” he says again, more insistently.

“Please,” he pushes forward, aided by her arousal and release, “please,” he pushes forward again, more of her swallowing him up, accompanied by the sensation of stretching and the slightest of stings, “please,” he pushes forward once more, finally sheathed fully inside of her.

She realises as he settles on top of her, giving her a moment to get used to the feeling of him, that this was merely a means to distract her so that she wouldn’t focus on the possibility of it hurting and grow tense. She smiles, stroking the wild tresses of his dark hair. Always so cunning.

He withdraws his hips slowly, before carefully pushing forward again. He repeats the motion several times, watching her face carefully.

As her breathing quickens, her brow relaxing as her jaw begins to slacken, he increases his pace, hips snapping against hers faster and faster, their kisses frenzied as they pant into each other’s mouths.

She feels him throb inside of her, the sensation pushes her back towards the precipice she’d fallen over earlier, but before she reaches it he is pulling out, spilling pearlescent ropes of spend across her belly.

He wipes her clean with a blanket, discarding it before laying down beside her and pulling her into his arms. A satisfied ache settles within her, she feels she could fall asleep like this, but his voice lulls her back to full consciousness.

“I have released the King’s sons back to him,” he tells her quietly.

“What will happen now?”

“He is sending a warrior named Uhtred into Winchester to negotiate terms, if I accept those terms then my men and I will move on.”

Her heart sinks. She cannot bear the thought of him leaving, not now she knows what it’s like to be in his arms. “Oh,” is all she is able to muster, pressing tighter to him.

They fall into a quiet doze, until he gently squeezes her shoulder. “I must go and speak with Uhtred.”

She watches sadly, quietly, as he dresses. He leans down to kiss her before he leaves and she pushes her lips eagerly to his. If he is to abandon her then she will cling to every last moment until he does.

When Sigtryggr returns later, she is dressed in her shift again, though her cross remains discarded. She is seated by the window, staring listlessly out of it.

He carries a bundle of clothing in his arms and she looks at him curiously.

“To keep you warm,” he explains, deepening her confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I have discussed terms with Uhtred and we have reached an agreement. I will leave Winchester, on the condition that you accompany me…not as my prisoner, but as my woman.”

She grins, running into his arms and wrapping her arms around his neck.

As they ride away from Winchester, side by side on horseback, she does not feel as though she is leaving her life behind. On the contrary, it has just begun.

[viking-chaos]

Of Irland, Chapter 25

Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 24 \\ Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 25: The Prisoners

Chapter Warnings: Smut, Threat Words: 2152 AO3

“Stupid children,” Stiorra muttered to herself angrily as she entered the Great Hall. They’d been running around her feet all morning as she tried to find the things Drifa had asked for, eventually tripping her up, causing her to drop the precious herbs, expensive ones too. Drifa would not be happy. 

Someone suddenly caught her waist and yanked her into a deep, passionate kiss. She grinned into it, recognising who it was immediately.

“And what exactly is it about children that is stupid?” Sigtryggr asked when he broke away to breathe.

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” she explained, “it’s that they don’t pay attention to their surroundings, and sometimes that causes problems.”

“Any I know?” he asked. “I could talk to their parents, make them apologise.”

She smiled, and shook her head. It was typical of him, always trying to find ways to be helpful. “No, there’s no point. They pushed into me while I was on errands for Drifa. I’d rather it was me facing her wrath than small children who would cower at the sight of her, small as she is.”

Sigtryggr laughed, and Stiorra had never heard a more beautiful sound. “Even the tallest of us tremble in her tiny presence.”

“But as she says, size doesn’t matter, only your honour and courage.”

He chuckled and kissed her again, his lips so soft on hers.

He suddenly picked her up in his arms, bringing her legs around his waist and carrying her off somewhere, all without breaking the kiss. She giggled slightly as she clung to his shoulders. He put her down on something hard and wooden, and moved his lips to her neck, sucking small marks as he went. She opened her eyes, realising that they were now on the high table, in full view of anyone who might walk in. 

“Sigtryggr,” she giggled, “here?”

“Why not here?” he murmured as his lips brushed the flesh below her ear.

“If anyone were to walk in-”

He pulled back, “Then they will see a man worship his woman as she should be worshipped,” he said, bending down on his knees.

He pulled down her stockings, kissing a trail up her legs.

Stiorra wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. She cursed her own inexperience, and waited to see what he would do.

He stopped for a moment, noticing her apprehension, and smiled reassuringly. Then he resumed his route, placing open-mouthed kisses up her thighs.

“Sigtryggr,” she whimpered, knowing what he was doing now, and desperate for him to just get on with it. She was soaked.

“So desperate, aren’t you?” he muttered, his lips hovering mere inches away from where she needed him the most. “Say it,” he whispered, the brush of air on her core making a soft whimper fall from her lips.

“Please,” she begged.

He smirked. that bastard smirked. “Please what?” he teased, moving a small faction closer to her weeping core. “Use your words.”

“Please,” she whimpered, “please use your mouth.”

And use his mouth he did.

The tip of his tongue softly licked at her pearl. She clamped a hand over her mouth, attempting to stifle the moan threatening to let itself out of her. He paused for a moment and said, “There is no-one here to hear us. Let me hear you.”

He dove back down between her thighs, almost tickling  her with only the very tip of his tongue.

And it felt incredible.

His little licks became steadily more vicious as she grew wetter by the moment. The little wispy thing on his chin he called a beard tickling her thighs making her squirm. And he suddenly licked a broad stripe across her folds with the flat of his tongue. 

Following that was a mixture of sucking on her pearl and licking more of those broad stripes. Stiorra wound her finger in his long wild hair, tugging on it to bring him closer. A particularly vicious yank (after a particularly harsh suck) had him outright moaning into her. 

So lost in her pleasure as she was, she barely registered when he inserted one of those gorgeous long fingers of his into her core. And then another. Crooking them within her and giving her the most blinding pleasure she may have ever experienced. It did not take long for her to see stars.

He pulled back grinning while rivulets of her juices ran down his chin.

He stood up slowly, wiping away the fluids from his chin. She could have sworn she watched him suck on his fingers, savouring the taste of her.

“Delicious,” he smirked.

He didn’t give her much time to recover from her climax before his lips were on hers again. She could feel his hardness poking at her thighs through his breeches. 

“Tell me,” he panted, “tell me you want this.”

“I want you.”

Her hands made quick work of the ties confining him. He pushed her back on the table and gripped her hips, pulling her as close to the edge as he dared.

He entered her suddenly, giving her little time to adjust. But she wanted him so badly, she didn’t care.

His hips snapped at a relentless pace as he pulled back up to him. He sucked on her neck, possibly leaving marks. She knew he would not last long. He must have been hard for her since she entered the Great Hall. He must have realised that too, as he started rubbing on her pearl with renewed vigour, desperate to get her to her peak before him. 

She pulled him back from neck, eager to claim his lips with hers as she felt her peak approach. She moaned deeply as it washed over her in waves, and he sighed as he spilled inside her. 

They stood like that for a moment gathering themselves, when the door banged open suddenly, and the two sprang apart. Ivar stormed in, a furious expression painted on his face as always. one that seemed to grow redder as his gaze landed on her and his brother. 

“What are you doing?” he thundered, still stomping like a child.

“Nothing,” Sigtryggr answered. 

Ivar growled. “DRIFA!” he yelled. “Where are you, you dumb little-”

Drifa walked in at that moment whistling a tune. “I’d be careful what you say about me, Ivar Ivarrsson. I am older than your father.”

Sigtryggr sniggered. 

“Let’s go,” Ivar grumbled.

Time to interrogate some prisoners. The small group went into the room behind the Great Hall known as ‘the war room’. Ivar signalled to a guard and Anlaf was brought in, still in the same grimy armour. His hair was damp from the cells, and his armour was tinged green, most likely from his time on the ship. He looked miserable, but then, Stiorra supposed anyone would feel miserable after a night in those cells. She shivered remembering her own time in there, not knowing if she was going to live or die.

She didn’t even think she was supposed to be in there. But as she began to slip out, Sigtryggr gripped her wrist. He nodded, telling her she could stay. 

Anlaf was pushed into a kneeling position on the floor as Ivar sat in a large carved chair that looked more like a throne. His gaze raked over Anlaf, as if he was observing a slave in the market. The last time either of the brothers had seen their nephew had been five years ago. 

The door opened again and Rognvaldr slipped in. No-one paid him much attention, other than Drifa, who nodded in greeting.

Ivar, seemingly finished glaring at his nephew, signalled Drifa to start. 

“Five years ago,” she began, “you, Anlaf Guthfrithsson, left Dyflin to find your father. Is that correct?”

“It is,” Anlaf answered.

“And from the looks of things, you found him?” she asked.

Anlaf nodded.

“So, my brother is still alive then?” Ivar questioned.

“He is,” Anlaf confirmed, “old, but alive and well.”

“You went with your friend Hermund Grimmarsson, yes?” Anlaf nodded. “And he is now a berserker. What happened?”

Anlaf took a few breaths. It was clear this was not something he wanted to talk about. But everyone stared at him expectantly. He had no choice.

“I don’t know what happened to him. When we arrived, we found out that my father had found and joined Barid. We were told we had to stay with them, as they didn’t want anyone to find out where they were. Hermund found another friend while we were there, but never told me his name. He started to spend more and more time with this man. We barely saw each other at all. Then he vanished. I did not see him for months. Then, my father took me on a raid with him and Barid, and a berserker came smashing through the village. I saw him doing horrible things there. And then he turned, and it was Hermund, except he was covered in berserker markings. He seemed happy to see me again, but I could hardly recognize him. He could outdrink anyone at the alehouses. He seemed to relish in the raids. I was disgusted at how anyone could do something like that. “And then we sailed up a river in Wessex. Or Mercia, I can’t remember. And we saw a ship. It was sizable, a trading ship. We didn’t see the flags, and Barid ordered us to raid it. I saw him and my father arguing about something, but it was too noisy with the men gathering their weapons and shields. After we were done, my father ordered us to leave the plunder. Hermund complained, but he told us it belonged to the seer, Drifa. And us raiding was not going to end well for us. She would come with her magic and spells and curse us all.”

He glanced at Drifa, who was smiling and shaking her head. “They tell such fanciful tales about me.”

“Perhaps you should curse them,” Sigtryggr suggested. 

“Quiet!” Ivar barked. “Let the boy finish.”

“He asked me and Hermund to turn ourselves in at the village behind us, until a boat came to take us to wherever the Seer was. So we turned ourselves into the local Lord, who happened to be Uhtred the Dane-Slayer. When Hermund learned that, he tried to kill Lord Uhtred, but was caught. I was treated more as a guest, until the other ship came. And then we came here,” he finished. 

There was silence after he completed his story. from the sound of things, Anlaf hadn’t done the right thing, perhaps he had grown since the last time he was in Dyflin. But Stiorra was in no position to judge. She didn’t even know Sigtryggr had a nephew until the ship carrying him arrived in Dyflin.

“We will decide what to do with you later,” Ivar said, breaking the silence. “For now, we will talk to your friend.” He signalled the guards to take Anlaf away again.

“From what he said, he didn’t really do much,” Sigtryggr said.

“He left Dyflin and sided with a traitor,” Ivar retorted.

“He came back,” added Rognvaldr. “Willingly, too.”

“You truly think he came back willingly?” Ivar conterred. 

The argument was interrupted by the arrival of Hermund, dragged in by two of Ivar’s men and Sigurd, a berserker himself. Even Sigurd was dwarfed by Hermund’s sheer size. But then, size wasn’t everything. Stiorra had little doubt that if Hermund so much as thought about trying anything, Drifa would be on him like a cat on a rat.

Hermund proved to be less talkative than his so-called friend, preferring to stare menacingly at them, stubbornly remaining silent. In the end, Ivar had to send him back to the dungeons.

“So,” Sigtryggr began, “what do we do with them now?”

A silence fell between them. 

Even Drifa seemed to have no clue.

“They have to be punished,” Ivar pointed out.

“Yes, but how?” Drifa questioned. “Anlaf confessed to the crimes he did commit, but none of them felt serious enough to execute him. He accused Hermund of crimes that we would execute for.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what we should do.”

“I say we kill Hermund,” Rognvaldr said. Everyone stared at him. He never made a lot of contributions to these sorts of discussions. “What? Am I not allowed to have an opinion?”

“No, Go on,” Drifa encouraged. “We kill Hermund.”

“And perhaps he can have Anlaf beaten,” he suggested. “Not too many times, of course.”

“I like this plan,” Drifa agreed.

“As do I,” Sigtryggr concurred. Even Ivar nodded.

“I suppose that would work. I…” he stopped and stared at Stiorra as if he had only just noticed she was in the room. “What is she doing here? What are you doing here? Get out!” He yelled.

Stiorra left without complaint. Perhaps it was best not to tempt luck any further today.

[timetravelingpenguin1066]

Of Irland, Chapter 8

Chapter 1 \\ Chapter 7 \\ Series Masterlist

Instead of being taken captive in Winchester, Stiorra leaves for Irland with a friend of her father’s. There she meets Sigtryggr, a Dane, the grandson of Ivar the Boneless.

Chapter 8: Dirty Waters

Chapter warnings: Language Words: 2604 AO3

Stiorra had been waiting for only a few moments when the others came in. “Where is Sigtryggr?” Ivar demanded.

“I..” she stuttered.

“I’m here,” called a voice from the stairs. Sigtryggr.

He came down, footsteps pounding on the stairs. He still did not have his shirt on.

“We need to talk, brother,” Ivar ordered. “You little hump thing can wait.”

The temperature in the room dropped. No-one spoke. Stiorra began shaking with fear, although she could not quite identify where it was coming from.

“What did you call her?” Sigtryggr thundered.

Fuck. He was sexy when he was angry. The way his eyes darkened. His voice dropped to a raspy whisper. His hands balled into fist at his sides…

Stiorra shook her head and stepped between the brothers. “Enough,” she said, “stopping fighting.”

Sigtryggr turned to look at her. There was a fire in his eyes. “He insulted you.” There was hurt in his voice.

Ivar had been insulting her since the day she arrived. Now that Sigtryggr was showing her attention, the number of insults was likely to double.

Stiorra glared at him until he backed down. Behind her, Ivar smirked. He muttered something in Irish that made Sigtryggr launch his way past her and start beating the shit out of him. 

Stiorra screamed.

Rognvaldr leapt into the fray, trying to break the two apart. Drifa called over Sigurd and Hæfnir to help.

There were several broken noses and bruised knuckles before Sigtryggr and Ivar were separated. Sigtryggr was seething, Ivar smirking.

Stiorra had never been so afraid. Not for herself. But for Sigtryggr. What if Ivar beat him to death? Deprive him of his place in Valhalla? Stiorra imagined killing him if that happened.

“Aww, féach air! Ag cosaint a chlú luachmhar mar an fear is cliste sa teaghlach ó shin i leith ár seanathair,” Ivar spat, held back by Hæfnir and Rognvaldr.

“Ná dean,” Sigtryggr growled, “glaoch orm bórd.”

“Ansin stop ag ligean ort gur duine againn tú. Níl ionat ach bastard, tá a fhios ag gach duine é.” At these words, Sigtryggr tried to launch himself at Ivar again, but failed due to being held down by Sigurd.

Sigurd, unlike Hæfnir, actually looked like a berserker. He was big, carried a massive axe, and his battle cry… that was enough to make anyone shit themselves. He was also exceedingly strong.

“Stop fighting,” Drifa warned. “Both of you. This is enough.” She stood between them now. She glared at Ivar. “Ivar…” she began. Then waved her hand at Asvard and started walking to the room at the back.

“She wants to go fuck yourself,” Asvard finished.

Ivar glared murderously at his brother, and then shrugged off the two men and stormed after Drifa.

Stiorra took a shaky breath. This was bad.

Both led their own bands of men. Both owned their own ships. Tension between the brothers could lead to tension between their men. If a war began within Dyflin, they would all be killed.

Sigtryggr turned back to her. She fought with herself as so not to stare. His nose, there was anything interesting about his nose. Right? Other than the fact it was bleeding.

“I’m sorry about that,” he apologised.

“You didn’t do anything,” she said.

“My brother insulted you,” he reminded her.

Stiorra said nothing.

Rognvaldr called out for Sigtryggr. He sighed, wiping the blood off his nose.

Well, now she got a nice view of his hands. His rough, warm but gentle hands. What she would give for those hands to cup her cheek, to gently draw her closer, to…

Shit. Not again. The puddle reformed.

“I should go and see what Ivar wants this time,” he grumbled. Not helping. The puddle grew larger, more of a pond.

“Will you be alright until later?” he asked her, brow furrowing in concern. She melted under his gentle gaze.

“I was thinking,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even, “I would bathe. It’s been a while.”

He nodded. “Just, don’t go alone,” he cautioned. Stiorra agreed.

“When you’ve finished humping her, brother!” Ivar yelled from the rear room.

Sigtryggr growled. He turned to leave when Stiorra reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Do not fight him again. Please?” she begged. He nodded. But she didn’t let go.

They just stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. Stiorra gazed into the deep blue abyss, falling every second.

“BROTHER!” Ivar called. Stiorra jumped back, and he walked away.

She watched him as he left, the tattoo on his back providing a nice contrast to his pinkish tinged skin. He turned back once more before the door shut.

Stiorra’s heart gave a leap. What was that? Him defending her.

She tried not to think about his sculpted form. Or his tattoo, tracing it with her fingers, skimming her lips along the dark lines…

For fuck’s sake! she yelled at her mind. Gods.

The things this man did to her.

***

Stiorra slowly sunk into the water. It was exactly cold, but wasn’t exactly warm, either. She dipped her head under the water before surfacing again.

A body slid into the lake beside her. Frida. “Is it alright if we join you?” she asked.

Stiorra looked back on the bank. Standing there was Torgärd and Thora. Drifa’s cousin, Asfrid was sitting on a stump. Jezekel, one of Drifa’s guards, was standing with his back turned a few feet away. Stiorra nodded and the women stripped and lowered themselves in the water. All of them except for Asfrid.

“Are you not joining us?” Stiorra inquired.

“No,” she replied, sighing. “I’ve already bathed. Drifa insisted that I chaperone. You never know what dangers lurk.”

“But you already have guard,” Stiorra reminded her, gesturing towards Jezekel. Asfrid groaned in annoyance.

“Fine!” she confessed. “Drifa sent to find out how you feel about Sigtryggr.”

Thora spluttered, snorting up some water. Frida patted her on the back as she coughed.

“WHAT?” Stiorra yelled indignantly.

Asfrid shrugged. “She knows you like him. She’s not blind. Or stupid.”

“And she sent all of you to wrangle a confession out of me,” she demanded of the others.

“Why do you think Mœid is not here?”

“I’d thought she was fucking Sigbjorn again,” Thora said.

Stiorra gaped at her. “I didn’t think any of you swore.”

“You try making through a hump with Hæfnir. He always swears,” she stated.

“Ingemar’s the same,” Frida added. “Always swearing.”

“They do that?” Stiorra asked. She then blushed at her own ignorance of such things. Her father had always shielded her from this type of conversation. Stiorra had the distinctive feeling she was about to have a lesson in humping from these women.

“Oh, yes,” Thora verified, “all the time.”

“Does it… hurt?” Stiorra asked hesitantly.

The women looked at her, seeming somewhat reluctant to answer her. The silence was long and awkward. Stiorra squirmed inside for asking such a question. Eventually, Thora spoke.

“It depends…” she paused, unsure of how to answer the question.

“You should ask Drifa,” Asfrid said. All the women looked up at her in surprise.

“Drifa doesn’t sleep with anyone,” Torgärd reminded her.

“She’s also well-travelled and a healer and advisor. She’s the person people come to for advice on all kinds of things from battle strategies to, yes, humping,” Asfrid informed her astonished crowd. “Thora, do you remember Drifa asking if it hurt the night after you lay with Hæfnir for the first time?”

Thora nodded. “I remember. I told her it only hurt for a moment, but he was gentle and careful, and he made sure I was comfortable before he started moving again.”

“Well, Drifa has asked that question to many women in all kinds of places. Some of them said it hurt every time. But they were mostly women who had not married for love or were women who were raped by their husbands every night. If they complained about it, they’d be told that he was ‘claiming his right as a husband’.” Asfrid paused for a breath.

Women raped in marriage? Stiorra had never really heard of that. She knew that Aethelflaed had not been well treated by her husband, Aethelred. But now Asfrid had said this, was this why the marriage was so unhappy? Or was there another reason.

“But there were those women who said the man was careful and gentle. That he made them comfortable. That he constantly asked if she was alright.”

Stiorra nodded as she listened. There was still something she had to clear up though.

“Why does Drifa to that kind of research if she doesn’t hump herself?” she asked Asfrid.

“Like I said, she is the one people go to for advice. To give advice, she needs to know things. I personally do not believe she has lived as long as she has and still never humped.”

“So, she has a lover?” Frida asked, smirking.

“I’m sure she does,” teased Asfrid.

“Who?” Thora begged. Stiorra chuckled, looking up at Asfrid, curious to know who had been handsome enough to break through a barriers Drifa had built up around herself.

Drifa had sworn off love many years ago when her best friend betrayed her and killed many of her friends. She had said that the reason he did it was for love. Since then, she had sworn that she would not fall in love. But that did not mean she could not hump. Love and humping do not always go together. But the idea that she had fallen off the wagon was too great a chance to annoy her back.

“I think it’s Asvard.”

All four women burst out laughing. Although now it had been said, Stiorra could see the appeal. Asvard was good-looking, strong. He was rumoured to be one of the few who could actually beat her in combat.

“Just, don’t tell her I said that,” Asfrid cautioned. “She tends to get really mad when you mention it.”

***

Sigtryggr:

“Faolán Mac Thóm?” Sigtryggr puzzled.

“Yes,” Ivar confirmed. “He is apparently forming an army to attack us.”

“Where is he gathering this army?”

“South,” Drifa provided, pointing at the map. “From what my man said, he may have upwards of three-hundred men.”

Rognvaldr snorted. “We can beat three hundred, easily.”

“These men are Irish,” Drifa cautioned. “They do not give in easily.”

“We should set some men on the walls and send scouts to watch for this army,” Sigtryggr advised. The more the better. One man’s family was already dead because of their lack of attention.

“I agree.” Sigtryggr’s head snapped up. He had expected to have to fight with Ivar on this, as he had been forced to on many occasions. “We send men to reinforce those at Papey.”

A good plan. Sigtryggr may not like his brother, but sometimes he actually did use his brain for thing other than insulting women. His thoughts wondered back to Stiorra.

Stiorra. The small woman who had come here with Drifa. Sigtryggr had not been able to stop thinking about her since the moment Drifa brought her into the Great Hall. He’d had a prior arrangement and had left. But now he wondered…

He snapped back into the conversation. “If the army is as big as you say,” Ivar was saying, “I am wondering how easy it will be for them to take this place.”

“Then they must not get past Papey,” Sigtryggr told him. “Send the men.”

Ivar nodded and the order was passed around.

Sigtryggr turned to leave.

“Where are you going, brother?” came a scornful voice. Ivar. “To find your little hump thing?” He chuckled.

Sigtryggr seethed. He turned and stormed towards Ivar pinning him back against the wall.

“Brother!” Rognvaldr shouted.

“Do not,” Sigtryggr growled, “call her that again.”

“Why? Aren’t humping her?” Ivar goaded. “Because if your not then I will-“

Sigtryggr did not let him finish his sentence. He slammed Ivar back into the wall again, letting him fall to the floor before punching him as hard as he could. Ivar struggled back, his fist connecting with Sigtryggr’s already broken nose. Drifa stepped in, pulling Sigtryggr off his brother.

“Enough,” she warned. “All this in fighting is not hel-.”

“You will not touch her,” Sigtryggr seethed.

Ivar chuckled. “Someone has to hump her. Teach her a lesson,” he goaded. He was enjoying this, Sigtryggr realised. He enjoyed riling his brother up, shattering his so-precious self-control.

Thankfully, Drifa responded before he could launch himself forwards again.

“Ivar, keep your dirty little hands off her. All this in-fighting between you, you create dirty waters, and your men drink it. We cannot afford a civil war now. We have a common enemy for now, Faolán. Let us focus on him.”

***

Stiorra:

Stiorra carefully slipped into her dress. It was flowy, like the red one from earlier, only this time it was blue, a colour Drifa said suited her. She strolled back to the city, escorted by Jezekel. The other women had long since left, but he’d remained, saying that Drifa had insisted.

Jezekel was unusual. He was tall and blonde. His hair was shorter than most Danes here, and his name did not sound Danish either. When she prodded him, he only told her that he came from some place far from here.

As they went through the gates, Stiorra felt someone grip her elbow. She turned to slap whoever it was, only to find that it was Sigtryggr. She smiled and he let go of her. Jezekel only looked back briefly before continuing.

“Did you enjoy your bath?” he inquired.

“I did,” Stiorra told him.

Sigtryggr was wearing a shirt now, not that Stiorra was surprised. The sun was setting, taking the heat of the day with it.

Sigtryggr offered Stiorra his arm. She looped her arm through it and they began to walk.

He pointed at the various shops and places in the city. He told her which blacksmith was the best to go to for swords, and which was best as shoeing horses. He showed her the stalls where farmers sold their crops. The butchers, where the stench of blood and death emerged from the darkened interior.

He took her to the market. This one was where the merchant’s came from overseas to sell things like cloth and jewellery. He hung back while Stiorra admired the trader’s wares.

Lastly, he took her to the docks where the ships came in and out. They stood there for a while, watching the sunset. Stiorra shivered in the cool evening breeze.

“You’re cold,” Sigtryggr observed.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. He was not convinced. He heard him leave for a moment.

When she heard his footsteps coming back, she turned to find him holding a thin summer cloak. It looked like Drifa’s work.

Drifa had many ways of making a living. She heeled people, but she did that for free. So she made armour and clothing.

Sigtryggr wrapped the thin linen cloak around her bare shoulders. She shivered again, but not from the cold.

“The waters are so clean here,” Stiorra marvelled.

“That’s because we don’t throw our shit in the water.”

“My father told me that my mother used to complain about washing in dirty waters,” she said sadly. Sigtryggr noticed this.

“I’m sorry,” he consoled. Stiorra shook her head to clear the tears. It had been many years.

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, he suggested that they go inside and eat. Stiorra happily agreed. This had been the best day in Irland so far. So much had changed. She still missed her father and her mother, but somehow, she didn’t quite feel as alone.

[pedge-page]

You Please, My Pleasure

Sub! Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: Sub!Joel, Mommy kink, cowgirl/riding, orgasm denial, over stimulation, unprotected sex, cream pie, orgasm control, reader’s hand makes a pretty necklace for Joel, themes of free use, objectification, praising words for Joel (sweet boy, etc), bitty breeding kink at end

18+ ONLY

- - - -

You sat In a community table at the cafeteria, over hearing a group of other women chattering about the men they'd been eying up:

"You seen that Joel Miller around?"

"Oh, he's hot as hell. I dont care how old he is."

"So protective, and strong, and firm. Jesus just look at him those broad, muscled shoulders and back. Bet he's a wild night."

"Shhh!"

"Im serious! The lucky girls he's probably pleasing..."

'Did you you hear he's apparently great with a gun."

He could ram his big gun in me any day."

"Shut up Claire! Oh my god."

"I just know it. Bet he could make you ache for days. Half the men here wouldn't compare to a guy like Joel in bed. I just have my own fingers to keep me barely satisfied, dreaming about a hunk like that."

"What about you?"

You hear your own named piped up, apparently leaning too far in to their conversation and now finding yourself included.

"Oh." You glance at the clock behind them, realizing you had to get back to your house instead of listening to the lady gossip of the town. "Luckily I just have my own toy to come home to..." and you escuse yourself with a gentle smile.

-

There was something beautiful about watching a strong, built, capable man like Joel Miller absolutely fall apart under you. The way his high pitched moans bounce within the confines of your bedroom, not one secret of his confessions ever leaving the safety of these four walls. His flush skin adorned in bright claw marks, almost a way of claiming him under those rugged clothes. His stomach tensing then releasing with each breathy pant, eyes rolling as he tries to hold on to the little control he has over his orgasms.

An unearthly sight. Just for you.

“Ah—ahh fuck!” He cries. Joel’s hips crash up against yours, shaking as he concentrates on starving off his orgasm.

You slow the rocking of your hips to gentle glides, your palm caressing the stubble of his cheek. “Shhhhhh, I know. I know. You’re bein’ so good tonight, baby.”

He nods with furrowed brows, eyes closed and head thrown back into the soft white pillow. His beautiful brown curls splayed out on the satin case like a god. “I’m—I’m bein’ so good,” he repeats, swallowing the lump in his throat as he feels himself regaining composure over the tight coil wound in his stomach.

“That’s right. That’s my good boy,” you praise. 

You start a slow rhythm again, softly bouncing on his thick cock that’s been teetering on the edge for an hour now, buried snugly in your suffocating pussy. 

“Good boy,” you coo again. “Mommy never leaves your aching cock neglected, huh? Let you live in my warm sopping pussy all day and night.”

“mmmm—yeah—yes Ma’am. Treatin’ me—s’good.”

You’ve trapped his body, your knees caging him between your legs. You can feel the tense quivers in his spread thighs, unable to do much as your ankles have wrapped back over the meat of them, pinning him below you. He can’t fuck up, can’t squirm. If he wanted to throw you off him, there’s no doubt the immense strength in him could. But he doesn’t. 

His hands are on your waist reassuringly, only to remind himself that you’re still here, guiding him through it. He’s gotten so much better at not taking back control, relinquishing his mind, body, and soul to you.

You feel the steady twitch of him inside you, dragging so deliciously along your walls, taking full advantage of his girth pushing to the crest of your womb. “You’re the best cock I’ve ever cum on.”

“Hahhhh, oohhhhhgggghhhh, tha—oh f-fuck!—thank you—“ he can’t help the slight canter of his own pelvis rolling up into you, brushing his tip along your cervix. “Thank you, Mommy. I—You feel so good—I feel—feel amazing, sweetheart. J-Jesus fuck. Love—love your tight pussy—choking’ my cock. Usin’—usin’ me.”

“Yeah? You like being my fucktoy?” The hand on his face slow glides to his mouth, your thumb hooking on the side and tugging before letting it spring back to place. You then push your fingers around his thick throat, the other hand planting firmly on his plush chest to hold you up. You don’t crush his neck, only leave your touch there as a warning. You ass slams down harshly on his fat cock, making him hiss, encouraging the new rough fucking you’re giving him. The room fills with the obscene slapping of skin against skin as you ride him harder.

“Yeah—yeah! Ye—ah fuck—fuck yes!” He croaks, teeth gritting as he stares you down with hooded eyes. “I l-love bein’ your little fuck stick. Comin’ home n’ fuckin’ me, fuckmefuckmefuckme!—turning’ me into y-your personal dildo. FUckMommy, yeah!”

His tongue sticks out, smiling hazily as his neck arches, head thrown further back, pushing him into your touch. He looked so fucking pretty wrapped around your fingers.

He doesn’t realize his hands have grasped at your breasts, squeezing them in his big hands. 

“Look at me,” you command, breathless yet still pulling your authoritative voice over him. His head snaps back, watching the way your body glistens on top of him with each bounce. Your hips were practically flush together, grinding down on him with precision. “Did I say you could touch my tits?”

He retracts his hands immediately, returning to their rightful place on your hips. “N-No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry Mommy, please.”

You tighten your grip around his throat. “You live— for my pleasure.”

He lets out a guttural groan from deep within his chest. “Yeah—yeah fu—oh fuck, shit—yes Mommy! squeezing’ me so tight, m’just for you, all yours, want you to feel so fuckin’ good, mmmm—” He’s nodding quickly, little wailing growls growing louder as you crash your pussy down on his weeping length over and over again. His lips are parted, fast short breaths being forced out as he feels his pleasure climbing.

“That’s right,” you pant, lost in the prickling feeling of your clit snagging against his pubic hair, smothering your throbbing nub.

“Nnffmmmm—I’m—I’m gonna cum, Mommy. Please, please tell me I can cum,” he whines.

You stop your hips entirely, ignoring the way his face curls into anguish and cries out pathetically. His body is shaking violently under you with the denial.

 You laugh wickedly in his face. “No, nonono, sweet boy.” You let him continue to whimper and quiver below, his cock twitching between your folds. You lean down and grip his hair, kissing him with your tongue invading his lips like a serpent in a rabbits den. You suck his bottom lip before pressing your foreheads together, rolling into a slow, devastating grind that has him seizing in near pain under you.

“I still want more cock.” 

Joel elicits a small whimper, reducing himself to nodding again. You cup around his cheek once more, a loving, natural tone slipping out of you. “Can you do that for me?”

 “Y-yes. Yes.” He coughs obediently, voice strained beyond recognition. 

You sit back up, both of your hands digging into his chest and start riding him more aggressively again. “Fuck me like you want to give me more cock.”

He gasps out a pained yelp. Joel’s beefy fingers clench your sides, nails pinching into your lower back. His knees bent, feet planted wide apart digging into the mattress to thrust up into you. He fucks you with vigor, ignoring his own pleasure too rapidly building inside him again in exchange to watch your tits bounce, hear your gorgeous voice flood the air with each powerful ram. 

“Ugh—oh yeah, baby that’s it!” You cry, tilting your head up to the ceiling. “Fuck me, fuck me so good, baby!”

But his hips are rutting too high, too fast, breath coming out too shallow. “Oh—oh god, I’m gonna—Mommy fuck I can’t! I can’t stop, I’m gonna—!”

“Don’t you dare fucking cum, Joel,” you snap. Your pussy contracts around the width of his cock in a death grip, unable to stop the aggressive back and forth grind as you chase your orgasm.

He’s shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut as you start to cum around him. 

“Oh f-fuCK I can’t—ICAN’T!—I’m—FUCKfuck!—“ His balls draw tight as he releases thick spurts of his seed, load after load filling your convulsing cunt as he forces out harsh pants through clenched teeth—“Mommy I’m sorry! I’m cumming! I can’t stop—I can’t stop fuckin’ cummin—ohjesus I’M CUMMING.” He’s absolutely pouring buckets, each throb of his cock inside you pushes more cum deep into your convulsing womb. The two of you are moaning together in high tune, though his even more desperate, slightly pained after being denied all night.

You settle before he does, eerily quiet atop him as his staggered breaths and fluttering chest calms. When the fog in his mind clears, his eyes fly open, shame washing over him at what he’d done.

“M-Mommy I—“

But you don’t listen, slowly driving back down with his spent cock sloshing in and out of your drenched cunt.

“Ah!” He yells, fingers tightening around your waist in a plea to stop the overstimulation. You yank his wrists off of you and pin them above his head. With each rock of your hips, you feel his stomach tensing and releasing, unsure of the overburdening sensation you’re forcing on his poor dick.

“mmmfffff—nnoo, Mommy, No more, please!”

You still ignore him, rutting your ass back down on his dick now that it’s fully erected again. His seed spills down the base of his cock, wet slaps overlapping with his pathetic pants.

“AURRgghhHH!! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He begs. “I’m—Mommy—fuck—fuck I can’t!”

“You can and you will.” You state plainly, pace continuing without falter.

His shaking digits desperately try to collide with the death grip around his wrists. “Please, please, how can I make it up to you??”

You smile inwardly. The desperation in his hoarse yet sweet voice, his shaking limps both squirming away and subconsciously thrusting back up in to your tight heat, more, less, more, he’s so unsure of the overstimulation wracking his bones. You liked this Joel. You want to keep this Joel. 

And he knows. 

“We’re not done until you fuck a baby in me.”

- - - -

Permanent Taglist:

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrs-oharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005

[veganineden]

On the Evolution of “Happily Ever After” and Why “Nothing Lasts Forever”

A reflection inspired by Good Omens 2

One of my favorite Tumblr posts on the second season of Good Omens 2 was actually not about the series at all, but our reaction to it, primarily the ending. @zehwulf wrote, “I think a lot of us—myself included—got a little too comfortable with assuming [Aziraphale and Crowley would] work on their issues right away post-Armageddon.” We did the work for them through meta, fanfiction, fanart, and building a plethora of headcanons. Who among us AO3-surfing fans didn’t read and love Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm?

In the 4 long years since season one was released, we did more than seek to understand and repair rifts between two fictional beings: we were forced to reckon with ourselves too. We faced a global pandemic, suffered traumatizing losses and isolation, and were forced to really and truly look into the face of our atrocities-ridden and capitalistic world. The mainstream rise of Diversity, Equity, Inclusion and Justice work, and our participation in this work, showed us that the systems in place were built to oppress and harm most of us, and they are. 

So, what does this have to do with the evolution of “happily ever after”? 

My friend put it best in a conversation we had following the season finale, when she pointed out a shift in media focus. The “happy end” in old stories about wars and kingdoms used to be “we killed the evil old king and put a noble young king in his place and now citizens can live in peace” and we’re transitioning into a period of “we tore down the whole fucking monarchy.” 

If we look at season one, written to follow the beats of a love story, it comforted us by offering a pretty traditional happy ending pattern: you get your fancy dinner with your special someone, the romantic music plays, and you have a place to call your own. Season one’s finale provided a temporary freedom for Aziraphale and Crowley, the “breathing room,” but it didn't solve the problem that was Heaven and Hell, or the agendas belonging to those systems of oppression. 

Is it good enough to keep our heads down, pretend the bad stuff isn’t happening, and live our own personal happy endings until we die? Moral quandaries aside, if you don't die (or if you care about the generations after you), then, like Aziraphale said, it “can’t last forever.” There’s a clear unpleasant end to the “happily ever after” that’s based on ignoring our problems– it’s the destruction of our relationships, and humanity. 

Ineffable Bureaucracy can go off into the stars because they do not care about humanity. 

You know who does?

Aziraphale. 

And Aziraphale knows that Crowley cares about humanity too. (He knows because Crowley was the one who proposed sabotaging Armageddon in the first place, who only invited him to the stars when he thought all was lost, because Crowley would save humanity if he thought it was possible, and Aziraphale knows Crowley has survived losing Everything before, and he will do all in his power so that Crowley does not need to experience that again.) 

In season one and two, we see how much they care about humanity, beyond their orders, to the point The Systems begin to frown at them. Aziraphale hears Crowley’s offer to run away together in the final episode of season two, to leave Earth behind, and just like the first time that offer was made in season one, he declines. He knows choosing only “us” is not a choice either of them can live with for the rest of eternity.

I believe season 3 will provide an opportunity to “dismantle the system,” but I don’t know how it will play out. I worry that Aziraphale has put himself in the now-dead trope of the “young noble king.” (I wish Crowley had told him why Gabriel was dismissed from his duties.) I worry that he would martyr himself as a sole agent for change. I worry that he doesn’t actually know how to dismantle anything by himself: because you can’t. He needs Crowley. He DOES. He needs Crowley, and Muriel, and other angels and demons and humans without fixed mindsets to help him. Only by learning to listen and making room at the table for all can they (and we) move past personal satisfaction to collective liberation. 

Crowley was right when he said that Aziraphale had discovered his “civic obligations.”

So, I think we will get our modern-day happy ending– and it’s going to involve a lot of pain and discomfort, communication, healing and teamwork– and in the end, it’ll all be okay. There will be a time for rest and a time for “us.” 

And most likely a cottage. 

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”

 - Maya Angelou

Support the SAG-AFTRA strike and other unions. Trust @neil-gaiman. Register to vote if you haven’t yet. Hold yourself and others accountable with compassion. Read books. Keep doing the work. Rest. Then watch Good Omens 2 again.  

[prying-pandora666]

From Zutara to Sokkla - Narrative Framing and Hypocrisy

Something that boggles me about the fandom is the complete double standard between Zuko and Sokka vs Katara and Azula.

A pretty noticeable example is how we frame the infamous “I’ll save you from the pirates” scene versus the Day of Black Sun.

The infamous pirates scene is often lauded (or condemned) as the birth of Zutara. Fans allege the tension between Zuko and Katara is palpable, and that their attraction is clear.

But let’s consider:

Katara isn’t a realized bender yet. She can’t defend herself. She’s surrounded by hardened adult criminals with weapons who have it out for her, and two firebenders (like the man who killed her mother!) who have been pursuing her doggedly, one of whom has shown he is quick to use violence even against civilians and the elderly.

Zuko dangles Katara’s necklace in front of her, the only item she has left of her mother, and threatens to take it away forever if she doesn’t sell out her friends.

If you want to read romance in this harrowing scene, feel free. It’s fiction and I’m not the morality police. Have fun!

What bothers me is the hypocrisy in how people frame this scene by comparison:

Consider this: Azula can’t bend. She’s unarmed. She’s pinned to the wall and has no means of escape. Her enemy is armed, is the architect of this invasion, has an army outside ready to follow him, and is currently flanked by an unstoppable earthbender and the friggin Avatar!

Azula is using herself as bait to protect her father (and ostensibly Zuko) knowing her life would be in terrible danger for minimum of 8 minutes. During which the enemy can do anything to her. The Fire Nation has done a lot of harm and there are surely many soldiers out there who would love to take their revenge on the Fire Nation’s pretty little princess who conquered the “impenetrable” capital of the Earth Kingdom.

The show goes out of its way to inform us that Azula is an expert at hiding her emotions. She can even fool Toph’s lie detector. Why?

Many people misinterpret this as a sign that Azula is an emotionless sociopath or whatever ableist pop-sci ideas they have about ASPD.

In reality, it’s the opposite. Azula being an expert at hiding her feelings is made clear so that we understand why she doesn’t look terrified, or vulnerable, or sad, or hurt until the finale when she finally cracks and her facade slips.

All she has at her disposal to protect herself is her wits (she had a knife and some Dai Li, but she has neither by this point). She smartly uses what she knows about Sokka to exploit his weakness and buy herself time. She’s so good at getting under his skin (which takes a sophisticated level of weaponized empathy) that even after he figures out what she’s doing, Sokka still can’t help himself.

This is all she can do to protect herself and her father. We as the audience know that Sokka and Toph aren’t going to kill or maim her, but Azula doesn’t!

So why in the world was this scene received as traumatic for Sokka?

Fans will claim that Azula’s mind games in this scene left Sokka with lasting trauma. That this is emotional abuse.

But who is the one pinned to the wall with no way to defend herself? Who is the one with weapons to threaten her with, and powerful allies who have it out for her?

If Sokka experienced any lasting trauma from this altercation, he sure never showed it! Sokka never seems to think much about Azula at all outside of wanting a rematch when it’s presented at the Boiling Rock. And even that is due to his feelings of inadequacy after the invasion. He even makes fun of Suki for being captured by Azula! Doubt he would do that if she had genuinely been tortured or if Sokka had been so traumatized by this scene.

Suki: Are you trying to get on my bad side?

Meanwhile, Katara does seem to have lasting trauma over her repeated altercations with Zuko. She talks about how he chased them all around the world threatening them. She refuses to trust him after he betrays her and fears he will get Aang killed. Zuko did hire an assassin.

In what universe can we read Zuko and the pirates threatening a helpless Katara as “romantic” but the scene with Sokka and Toph threatening a helpless Azula as “traumatic for Sokka”?

Only a universe where we have already subconsciously decided we are on Zuko and Sokka’s side.

These scenes can only be read that way if we have already decided Zuko isn’t that bad regardless of how Katara feels about what he does to her, and that Azula is pure evil regardless of what anyone does to her.

It’s a world where both Azula and Katara’s feelings are ignored.

If you want to read the pirate scene as romantic? Have fun. Enjoy your fics. It’s all good.

But let’s not pretend Zuko is some pure woobie in this scene that just needs some Katara loving, while Azula is some fearless psychopathic monster that enjoys putting herself in danger as long as she gets to “abuse” Sokka.

There’s a reason these two scenes exist this way. Katara and Zuko are parallels just as Azula and Sokka are. Katara and Azula are foils just like Sokka and Zuko are.

Fandom can and should do better by Katara and Azula. They deserve just as much consideration and empathy for their suffering and unmet needs as their brothers do. Even if Azula was a villain - so was Zuko for most of the show!

And as a pretty consequence, I can say this: Zutara and Sokkla are equally viable.

Goodnight, shippers.